UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


^American  ^Authors 

& 
Their  Homes 


Note 

rHESE  papers   were  printed  originally   in  THE 
NEW  YORK  TIMES,  and  all  but  two  of  them  in 
THE  NEW  YORK  TIMES  SATURDAY  REVIEW  OF  BOOKS 
AND  ART.      They  are  reprinted  here  by  the  courtesy 
of  THE  NEW  YORK  TIMES  COMPANY. 


American  Authors 
and  Their  Homes 

Personal  Descriptions  &  Interviews 


Edited  with  an 
Introduction  and  Additions 

By 

FRANCIS  WHITING   HALSET 

Eighteen  Illustrations 


NEW  YORK 
JAMES  POTT  &  COMPANY 

MCMI 


COPYRIGHT,    1898,    1899,    1901,    BY 
THE    NEW    YORK    TIMES    COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1901,    BY 
JAMES    POTT    &    COMPANY 


Entered    at    STATIONERS'    HALL,    LONDON 


FIRST    IMPRESSION    SEPTEMBER    15,     1901 


PS 


Preface 


TF  T  has  not  seemed  practicable  to  attach 
r  I  to  these  articles  the  names  of  those 
-*-  who  originally  wrote  them,  so  many 
changes  and  such  material  additions,  due  to 
new  conditions,  have  been  made  by  the  editor. 

qjj  A  few  of  the  articles  are  reprinted  as 
they  were  written;  for  example,  the  one 
on  Joaquin  Miller,  by  George  Hamlin  Fitch, 
the  literary  editor  of  the  San  Francisco 
Chronicle;  the  one  on  Thomas  Nelson  Page, 
by  William  Wallace  Whit  clock,  and  those 

£>  on  "John  Burroughs  and  Henry  M.  Alden, 
by  Ernest  Ingersoll,  the  naturalist,  who  is 

**     Mr.  Burroughs' s  neighbor  and  has  often  been 

^     M.r.  Alden  s  contributor ;  but    others,    like 

the  one  on  Edmund  Clarence   Stedman,  by 

Henri  Pene  DuBois,  the  one  on  Henry  van 

Dyke,    by    Stanhope    Sams,    those    on  Paul 

C    Leicester  Ford  and  Frank  R.  Stockton,  by 

jg  Cromwell  Childe,  and  most  others,  have 
been  so  radically  altered  because  of  the  re- 


264909 


Preface 

moval  of  authors  to  homes  elsewhere,  as  well 
as  for  other  new  and  imperative  causes ,  that 
to  undertake  to  give  the  names  would  involve 
specifications  as  to  where  a  contributor  s  work 
ended  and  the  editor  s  began,  which  would 
seem  to  be  an  act  of  supererogation. 

The  editor  has  prepared  for  each  sketch 
a  list  of  the  author  s  better-known  books, 
with  the  dates  of  their  original  publication. 
In  some  cases  the  lists  are  nearly  complete, 
but  in  others,  notably  Mr.  Howells  and  Mr. 
Stockton,  scarcely  half  the  total  number  of 
works  is  given.  In  a  volume  of  this  char 
acter  anything  approaching  a  full  bibliogra 
phy  would  seem  to  be  quite  out  of  place. 
Readers  seeking  further  titles  may  find  them 
in  Allibone  (the  Supplement  comes  down  to 
1891}  and  in  the  catalogues  of  publishers. 

While  each  paper  treats  of  a  separate 
and  distinct  topic,  within  clearly  defined 
limits,  the  editor  has  thought  it  would  be 
well  for  him  to  prepare  an  analytical  index, 
in  order  that  the  range  of  subjects  touched 
upon  might  become  more  apparent  and  refer 
ences  to  them  be  made  easy. 

[vi] 


Contents 

Page 

INTRODUCTION  :      The    Author    and    His 

Home i 

I.    RICHARD    HENRY    STODDARD    in 

East  Fifteenth  Street,  New  York     1 7 

II.    JOHN  BURROUGHS  in    West-Park- 

on-the-Hudson,  N.  Y.      .     .     .     29 

III.  HENRY   VAN   DYKE   in   Princeton, 

N.J 45 

IV.  FRANK  R.  STOCKTON  near  Charles 

Town,  W.  Va 59 

V.    HAMILTON  W.  MABIE  in  Summit, 

N.J 75 

VI.    THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH  in  Mount 

Vernon  Street,  Boston      ...     89 

VII.    WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS  in  Cen 
tral  Park  South,  New  York        .     99 

VIII.  PAUL  LEICESTER  FORD  in  East  Sev 
enty-Seventh  Street,  New  York, 
and  in  Brooklyn ill 

[vii] 


Page 

IX.    JOHN  FISKE  in  Cambridge,  Mass.   123 

X.    GEORGE    W.    CABLE    in   North 
ampton,  Mass 135 

XI.    JOAQUIN  MILLER  on  the  Heights 

back  of  Oakland,  Cal.      .     .     .143 

XII.  EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN  in 
Lawrence  Park,  Bronxville, 
N.  Y 157 

XIII.  THOMAS  NELSON  PAGE  in  Wash 

ington,  D.  C 173 

XIV.  F.    HOPKINSON    SMITH    in    East 

Thirty-fourth  Street,  New  York   187 

XV.  DONALD  G.  MITCHELL  at  Edge- 
wood,  in  New  Haven,  Conn.  .  195 

XVI.    THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGIN- 

SON  in  Cambridge,  Mass.    .     .   209 

XVII.    GEORGE  E.  WOODBERRY  in  East 

Seventeenth  Street,  New  York  221 

XVIII.    ANDREW    CARNEGIE     in    West 

Fifty-First  Street,  New  York  .   235 

XIX.    BRANDER    MATTHEWS    in  West 

End  Avenue,  New  York    .      .    247 

XX.    JOHN  KENDRICK  BANGS  in  Yonk- 

ers,  N.  Y 257 

[  viii  ] 


Contents 

Page 

XXI.    HENRY  M.  ALDEN  in  Metuchen, 

N.  J 269 

XXII.    ERNEST     SETON-  THOMPSON     in 

Bryant  Park,  New  York      .     .279 

INDEX 295 


[ix] 


Illustrations 


INTERIOR  OF  THE  AUTHORS'  CLUB  IN  THE 
CARNEGIE  BUILDING,  NEW  YORK  Frontispiece 

Facing 
page 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 2 

His  cottage  in  Fordham. 

R.  H.  STODDARD 18 

His  home  in  New  York. 

JOHN  BURROUGHS 30 

Slabsides,  his  summer  home  in  West-Park- 
on-the-Hudson. 

HENRY  VAN  DYKE 46 

A  corner  in  his  library. 

FRANK  R.  STOCKTON 60 

Claymont,  his  new  home  in  West  Virginia. 

HAMILTON  W.  MABIE 76 

His  home  in  Summit. 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 90 

His  "den"  in  Boston. 

W.  D.  HOWELLS 100 

At  his  desk  in  New  York, 
[xi] 


Illustrations 

Facing 
page 

PAUL  LEICESTER  FORD 112 

His  new  house  in  New  York. 

JOHN  FISK.E 124 

His  home  in  Cambridge. 

JOAQUIN  MILLER 144 

His  estate  near  Oakland,  California. 

E.  C.  STEDMAN 158 

His  home  in  Lawrence  Park. 

F.  HOPKINSON  SMITH 188 

His  studio  in  New  York. 

DONALD  G.  MITCHELL 196 

His  library  at  Edgewood,  New  Haven. 

T.  W.  HlGGINSON 2IO 

His  home  in  Cambridge. 

JOHN  KENDRICK.  BANGS 258 

His  home  in  Yonkers. 

ERNEST  SETON-THOMPSON 280 

His  studio  in  New  York. 


[xiil 


Introduction 

The  Author  and  His  Home 


0 

<-> 
*\» 

^ 


Introduction 
'The  Author  and  His  Home 

THE  changes  which  have  occurred  in 
economic  conditions  in  this  country 
during  the  past  fifty  years,  while  pro 
ducing  many  interesting  results,  have  led  to 
none  more  gratifying  than  the  improvement 
brought  about  in  the  worldly  state  of  the 
author.  An  enlargement  in  individual  incomes 
has  probably  occurred  in  most  walks  of  life,  but 
with  the  author  the  improvement  has  probably 
been  more  striking  than  in  any  other  of  the 
so-called  learned  professions.  Not  only  does 
Grub  Street  belong  to  a  very  remote  past,  but 
even  a  hall  bedroom  seems  now  to  suggest  con 
ditions  that  have  forever  ceased  to  exist.  The 
pictures  which  illustrate  this  volume  will  forci 
bly  remind  the  reader  of  this  improvement. 
Here  is  seen  the  cottage  which,  fifty  odd  years 
ago,  was  the  home  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  Fol 
lowing  it  are  pictures  showing  houses  in  which 
authors  dwell  to-day. 

At  the  top  of  a  steep  hillside,  along  whose 
crest  runs  an  ancient  highway  called  the  Kings- 
[3] 


Introduction 

bridge  Road,  and  at  a  point  distant  perhaps 
half  a  mile  eastward  from  Jerome  Avenue,  on 
which  runs  a  trolley  to  and  beyond  the  gates  of 
Woodlawn  Cemetery,  still  stands  in  Fordham, 
in  primal  simplicity,  the  cottage  of  Poe.  It  is 
quite  the  humblest  dwelling,  old  or  new,  in  all 
that  neighborhood.  Beneath  its  roof  when 
writing  "  The  Bells,"  "  The  Cask  of  Amontil 
lado/'  "  Eureka,"  some  of  the  "  Marginalia," 
and  other  papers,  this  gifted  man  of  letters 
found  his  home  from  the  spring  of  1846  until 
his  death  in  October,  1849.  "Although  at  the 
best,  a  mean  dwelling,"  says  Mr.  Woodberry, 
his  biographer,  "  it  was  the  pleasantest  retreat 
he  had  known."  Mr.  Woodberry  describes 
the  interior — 

Within  on  the  ground  floor  were  two  small  apart 
ments,  a  kitchen  and  sitting-room,  and  above  up  a 
narrow  stairway  two  others,  one,  Poe's  room,  a  low, 
cramped  chamber  lighted  by  little  square  windows  like 
port-holes,  the  other  a  diminutive  closet  of  a  bedroom, 
hardly  large  enough  to  lie  down  in.  The  furniture 
was  of  the  simplest  :  in  the  clean,  white-floored  kitchen 
were  a  table,  a  chair,  and  a  little  stove,  and  in  the 
other  room,  which  was  laid  with  checked  matting, 
were  only  a  light  stand  with  presentation  volumes  of 
the  Brownings  upon  it,  some  hanging  shelves  with  a 
few  other  books  ranged  on  them,  and  four  chairs. 
[4] 


^fhe  Author  and  His  Home 

Friends  called  on  him  and  found  him  anxious  over  the 
one  great  trouble  of  his  poverty,  or  inspirited  by  the 
compliment  of  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Browning,  or  en 
deavoring  to  distract  his  mind  with  his  pets — a  bobo 
link  he  had  caught  and  caged,  or  a  parrot  someone 
had  given  him,  or  his  favorite  cat. 

When  Poe  went  to  Fordham,  he  was  already 
famous,  not  only  in  his  own  land,  but  across 
the  sea.  In  the  autumn  following  his  arrival, 
his  tales  had  been  the  subject  of  an  extended 
and  laudatory  article  in  the  Revue  des  Deux 
Mondes.  Rival  newspapers  in  Paris  had  been 
engaged  in  legal  proceedings  as  to  their  rights 
to  "The  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue."  Sev 
eral  other  of  his  best  stories  at  the  same  time 
had  found  a  French  translator.  But  in  spite  of 
this  recognition  and  fame,  Poe  was  miserably 
poor.  Friends  on  one  occasion  had  privately 
raised  for  him  the  sum  of  $60,  and  on  another, 
New  York  newspapers  had  publicly  secured 
,$100.  His  wife,  whom  he  adored,  meanwhile 
was  dying  in  this  cottage  at  Fordham,  and 
here  is  an  eyewitness's  description  of  the  bed 
on  which  she  lay  : 

There  was  no  clothing  on  the  bed,  which  was  only 
straw,    but    a    snow-white     counterpane     and    sheet. 
The    weather  was  cold  and    the    sick    lady  had    the 
[5] 


Introduction 

dreadful  chills  that  accompany  the  hectic  fever  of  con 
sumption.  She  lay  on  the  straw  bed  wrapped  in  her 
husband's  greatcoat,  with  a  large  tortoise-shell  cat  in 
her  bosom.  The  wonderful  cat  seemed  conscious  of 
her  great  usefulness.  The  coat  and  the  cat  were  the 
sufferer' s  only  means  of  warmth,  except  as  her  husband 
held  her  hand  and  her  mother  her  feet.  Mrs.  Clemm 
was  passionately  fond  of  her  daughter,  and  her  dis 
tress  on  account  of  her  illness  and  poverty  and  misery 
was  dreadful  to  see. 

Poe's  greatcoat,  which  thus  had  kept  his 
wife  warm,  was  a  military  garment.  It  served 
to  cover  his  own  frame  early  in  February,  1847, 
when,  with  a  few  friends  attending  him,  he 
followed  his  wife's  body  to  its  burial-place.  In 
the  following  winter  Poe  was  writing  "  Eureka;" 
and  "  night  after  night  in  the  coldest  weather," 
says  Mr.  Woodberry,  "  he  would  wrap  himself 
in  this  great  military  coat  and  pace  the  little 
veranda  of  the  cottage,  through  long  hours  of 
solitary  meditation,  elaborating  thought  by 
thought  his  theory  of  the  eternal  secret." 

In  those  dreary  scenes  was  to  be  observed 
something  of  the  deepest  pathos  in  human  life. 
Other  times  have  brought  upon  the  scenes  other 
authors — poets  some  of  these,  essayists  some, 
story-tellers  others,  but  none  gifted  as  was  Poe 
in  all  three  forms  of  composition ;  few,  indeed, 
[6] 


T'he  Author  and  His  Home 

gifted  as  was  he  in  any  one  of  them.  Our  liv 
ing  authors  often  dwell  in  what  are  called  cot 
tages,  but  they  are  not  of  the  Fordham  type. 
They  are  houses,  spacious  in  dimensions,  with 
lands  about  them  that  are  to  be  described  in 
acres,  a  stable  in  the  rear,  and  not  infrequently 
a  coachman  in  attendance. 

Fame  and  a  great  following  of  readers  have 
brought  rewards  somewhat  adequate  to  per 
formances.  It  is  not  fame  for  many  authors  of 
the  kind  that  Poe  secured,  for  his  still  increases 
with  the  years  and  must  long  endure,  but  theirs 
is  certainly  wider  in  their  own  lifetime  than 
ever  his  was.  In  the  number  of  readers  Poe 
has  been  far,  very  far,  outdone,  simply  because 
of  the  enormous  increase  in  the  people  who 
now  read  books. 

Not  only  has  the  author  in  our  day  acquired 
a  home  commensurate  in  its  dignity  with  his 
importance  in  the  world,  but  his  personal  rank 
among  the  professional  men  of  his  time  has 
otherwise  risen.  He  no  longer  foregathers  with 
his  fellows  in  a  Broadway  basement  as  did  the 
good  men  and  brave  of  forty  years  ago  at 
Pfaff's.  He  has  real  and  substantial  social  dis 
tinction.  He  makes  addresses  at  college  com 
mencements,  lectures  or  gives  readings  from 
[7] 


Introduction 

Maine  to  California,  and  presides  at  great  pub 
lic  dinners  where  an  ex-President  of  the  United 
States  may  be  seated  9n  his  right  and  the  Bishop 
of  New  York  on  his  left.  He  has  successfully 
passed  the  familiar  test  of  membership  in  the 
best  clubs  of  the  great  city,  and  even  that  final 
test  in  clubland — membership  in  the  Century, 
where  some  score  of  his  guild  do  gather. 

Indeed,  the  author  has  a  club  all  his  own, 
prosperous  and  well  housed,  to  which  no  man 
can  enter  except  he  be  an  author  in  good  re 
pute.  Within  the  walls  of  that  club  he  has 
bestowed  the  honors  of  a  reception  upon  men 
whose  names  are  familiar  to  all  ears — men  who 
were  just  going  out  as  ambassadors  to  the  Porte, 
to  the  German  Empire,  to  the  French  Republic, 
and  to  the  Court  of  St.  James's.  There  also  he 
has  gathered  all  that  possesses  national  distinc 
tion  in  the  world  of  literature,  to  attend  recep 
tions  to  Mr.  Stedman  and  Mr.  Stockton,  to  Mat 
thew  Arnold  and  Frederic  Harrison.  He  has 
originated  a  dinner  to  one  of  his  own  guild  at 
the  most  palatial  club-house  in  New  York,  and 
the  throng  which  came  together  to  honor  Mr. 
Mabie  embraced  rank  and  distinction,  not  only 
in  the  world  of  letters,  but  in  those  of  law  and 
finance,  of  commerce  and  journalism,  of  medi- 
[8] 


The  Author  and  His  Home 

cine  and  the  bench,  of  publishing  and  printing. 
No  men  of  any  class,  indeed,  are  more  welcome 
than  his  class  within  walls  where  festive  gather 
ings  assemble.  Millionnaires  give  him  homage, 
and  Mr.  Carnegie,  one  of  the  chief  magnates 
among  them  all,  must  have  had  in  mind  the 
author's  mental  resources  for  idle  hours  when 
he  lamented  that  rich  men  in  this  country  have 
so  much  to  retire  from  and  so  little  to  retire  to. 

The  causes  for  these  improved  conditions  for 
the  author  are  not  far  to  seek.  Our  American 
world  in  the  thirties  and  forties  was  a  very  small 
world,  confined  to  this  side  of  the  Mississippi, 
with  Chicago  a  mere  village  and  men  just  begin 
ning  to  build  railroads  beyond  the  Alleghenies 
and  the  Ohio.  Not  only  has  our  population 
more  than  trebled  since  1840,  but  the  wide 
influence  of  education  has  raised  up  thousands 
of  readers  where  in  Poe's  time  existed  a  hun 
dred,  so  that  a  single  popular  novel  finds  in  one 
year  more  readers  than  all  Poe's  books  acquired 
during  his  entire  lifetime. 

International  copyright  has  been  another  fac 
tor  to  be  reckoned  with.  It  is  no  longer  possi 
ble  to  reprint  in  this  country,  in  cheap  form  and 
without  royalties,  the  writings  of  popular  Eng 
lish  authors  and  thus  to  supply  the  public  with 
[9] 


Introduction 

the  great  bulk  of  its  reading  from  abroad,  to  the 
detriment  of  American  authors,  to  whom  royal 
ties  would  have  to  be  paid.  In  the  past  ten 
years  much  greater  demands,  accordingly,  have 
existed  for  American  writings,  while  the  sales  of 
English  books  have  correspondingly  declined. 

Coincident  with  these  circumstances,  and 
largely  because  of  them,  has  been  the  growth  of 
periodical  literature,  with  its  enormous  influence 
in  popularizing  books  and  creating  markets  for 
authors'  wares.  Among  the  pitiful  struggles  of 
Poe  was  none  more  pitiful  than  his  repeated 
attempts,  and  as  frequent  failures,  to  establish  or 
maintain  periodicals.  Tasks  that  have  since 
succeeded  again  and  again  would  have  been  im 
possible  to  anyone  in  his  day.  Of  all  our  cur 
rent  popular  magazines — and  the  number  is 
legion — not  one,  I  believe,  dates  back  to  the 
last  years  of  Poe's  life,  and  the  most  of  them 
have  come  into  being  since  the  Civil  War. 

With  this  development  has  occurred  a  very 
marked  concentration  of  literary  and  publishing 
activity  in  one  centre — New  York.  To  New 
York  more  and  more  have  drifted  the  great 
publishing  industries  of  the  whole  country. 
Here,  houses  that  were  formerly  small,  have 
grown  to  be  large  ones ;  here  have  settled 

[10] 


'T'ke  Author  and  His  Home 

houses  from  other  cities,  either  with  branches 
or  coming  bag  and  baggage,  and  here  have  been 
founded  new  and  prosperous  ones.  Indeed, 
here  are  to  be  seen  branches  of  many  famous 
London  houses.  And  they  all  desire  manu 
scripts  from  which  to  make  new  books. 

And  so  it  has  followed  that  in  New  York,  or 
within  easy  reach  of  the  New  York  publishers, 
dwell,  for  at  least  part  of  the  year,  nearly  all 
the  writers  who  to-day  are  prominent  in  litera 
ture,  and  who,  as  an  eminent  publisher  has  re 
marked,  enable  the  men  of  his  calling  "  to  feed 
the  hopper."  Mr.  Aldrich  remains  in  Boston 
an  almost  solitary  figure.  Now  that  John  Fiske 
has  died,  he  and  Edward  Everett  Hale  are  in 
deed  solitary,  in  so  far  as  we  may  look  for 
others  of  the  same  rank  or  of  equal  achieve 
ments — a  striking  change  since  the  time  of  Poe, 
when  to  Boston  and  its  environs  belonged  Haw 
thorne,  Emerson,  Longfellow,  Lowell,  Whittier, 
Thoreau,  Prescott,  and  Holmes. 

In  these  facts  we  find  the  sources  of  those 
enlarged  incomes  for  authors  which  have  made 
cottages  like  Poe's  unknown  in  our  day  as 
homes  for  gifted  men  of  letters.  In  its  place 
have  risen  edifices  which  to  Poe  would  have 
been  palaces,  and  which,  to  any  man  moderately 


Introduction 

ambitious,  ought  to  afford  space,  shelter,  and 
comfort  ample  for  all  his  needs. 

Let  no  man  begrudge  to  authors  their  better 
material  rewards.  No  class  of  men  among  our 
toiling  millions  ever  earned  money  more  hon 
estly.  None  has  labored  more  zealously,  more 
disinterestedly,  more  patiently,  or  to  nobler 
uses.  Not  through  what  we  call  fortunate  cir 
cumstances,  not  through  influential  friends,  not 
through  what  the  law  gave  them,  not  by  know 
ing  how  to  use  the  brains  of  other  men,  have 
authors  won  success  in  the  world.  There 
never  was  a  republic  or  a  democracy  so  pure, 
so  elemental,  as  this  one  of  letters.  It  is  a  fair 
field  and  there  are  absolutely  no  favors.  It  is 
always  the  best  man  who  wins,  and  he  wins  or 
loses  by  his  own  acts,  and  none  can  help  him 
otherwise. 

And  yet  if  we  have  regard  for  relative  things, 
the  pecuniary  rewards  even  now  of  successful 
authors  would  seem  unduly  small.  None  surely 
has  ever  yet  from  his  own  writings  risen  to  be 
a  millionnaire.  None  has  risen  even  to  the 
rank  of  what  I  may  call  opulent  independence. 
They  toil  all  their  days  and  so  must  toil — for 
subsistence.  Their  accumulations,  when  they 
have  made  any,  scarcely  ever  would  suffice  to 
[12] 


'The  Author  and  H/s  Home 

maintain  them  in  the  scale  of  living  to  which 
they  have  risen.  They  must  constantly  keep 
on  earning  in  order  to  dwell  in  these  better 
homes. 

From  the  law  greater  incomes  constantly  are 
derived,  and  so  from  the  engineering  profes 
sions,  from  the  medical  and  the  ministerial. 
The  authors  in  this,  country  whose  incomes 
from  their  books  alone  have  risen  to  an  average 
of  $5,000  for  a  score  of  years,  probably  num 
ber  less  than  a  hundred.  The  lawyers,  doc 
tors,  engineers,  ministers,  whose  incomes  have 
reached  that  sum,  probably,  in  each  class  would 
number  at  least  a  thousand.  This  disparity  we 
should  not  trouble  ourselves  to  deplore,  in  the 
hope  of  correcting.  It  is  the  result  of  remorse 
less  conditions,  immovable  now  and  probably 
permanent. 

For  at  least  a  hundred  years  books  have  been 
about  the  cheapest  things  that  men  can  buy. 
Few  cost  more  than  a  pair  of  gloves,  a  ticket  to 
the  theatre,  or  a  handful  of  cigars.  It  is  well 
that  these  things  are  so,  since  whatever  makes 
for  man's  spiritual  welfare  should  be  easily  pro 
cured.  But  it  is  essentially  at  the  author's  ex 
pense  that  these  conditions  exist.  The  author 
may  spend  a  year  or  more  in  writing  a  book 
[13] 


Introduction 

from  which  his  income  will  scarcely  equal  the 
charge  which  a  skilled  surgeon  or  a  corporation 
lawyer  may  make  for  a  few  hours  of  work. 
Corporations  with  a  volume  of  business  rising 
to  many  millions  a  year  clearly  can  and  will  pay 
more  for  professional  services  than  a  public 
which  probably  never  buys  from  any  one  pub 
lisher's  "  trade  list  "  enough  books  in  a  year  to 
swell  the  volume  of  transactions  to  more  than 
one  million  dollars.  These  inexorable  facts 
must  account  for  the  inequalities  in  professional 
rewards.  It  is  not  a  question  of  the  importance 
of  the  services  rendered  or  the  talents  which 
render  them.  It  is  purely  an  economic  ques 
tion,  and  economic  laws  are  stubborn. 

But  of  other  rewards  what  a  store  have  not 
been  gathered  in  by  men  who  write  books  that 
live — rewards  impossible  to  all  other  forms  of 
success  among  men.  Even  now  the  generation 
of  school-children  who  learn,  and  who  will  re 
member  to  their  dying  day,  the  weird  music  of 
"The  Raven"  and  "The  Bells"  cannot  tell 
who  were  our  Presidents  when  Poe  wrote  those 
words,  any  more  than  they  can  tell  who  was 
Prime  Minister  of  England  when  Charlotte 
Bronte  wrote  "  Jane  Eyre " — cannot  tell  and 
do  not  care. 


The  Author  and  His  Home 

Among  the  authors  included  in  this  volume 
are  men  whose  writings  will  long  delight  a  pub 
lic  that  has  grown  indifferent  to  old  campaigns 
for  the  Presidency,  to  the  war  with  Spain,  and 
to  gossip  about  millionnaires.  The  lawyer's 
fame,  meanwhile,  will  perish,  being  as  epheme 
ral  as  the  actor's,  and  perhaps  more  so ;  it  will 
be  enshrined  in  reports  and  be  known,  when 
known  at  all,  to  his  successors  in  the  profession 
only.  Of  engineers,  physicians,  and  preachers 
it  is  ever  the  same.  But  the  author  who  writes 
books  which  the  world  will  not  let  die  achieves 
the  most  certain  immortality  it  is  possible  to 
gain.  If  he  seldom  achieves  financial  independ 
ence,  he  acquires  something  to  him  worth  more 
— security  against  speedy  oblivion. 

Another  reward,  and  not  the  least  agreeable 
to  him  while  he  lives,  is  the  personal  relation  he 
is  made  to  feel  that  he  bears  toward  his  readers. 
It  is  true  that  a  personal  relation  arises  in  all 
professional  occupations — something  closer  and 
more  friendly  than  trade  can  bestow ;  but  with 
authors,  those  persons  with  whom  it  is  enjoyed 
compose  a  far  larger  company  ;  they  are  usually 
persons  whom  the  author  has  never  met ;  some 
thing  of  the  relation  will  remain  until  his  death 
and  so  long  thereafter,  in  fact,  as  his  books  are 


Introduction 

read.  It  is  the  biographies  of  authors,  unevent 
ful  as  are  the  lives  of  authors,  that  become  the 
most  widely  read  of  all  personal  records ;  when 
written  by  a  Boswell,  more  widely  read  than  the 
author's  own  books,  and  hence  the  constant  in 
terest  the  reading  public  has  in  the  daily  pursuits 
of  authors,  their  methods  of  work,  and  their 
homes. 

This  experience,  in  the  absence  of  larger  pe 
cuniary  rewards,  may  be  accepted  as  compen 
sation  rich  enough.  Clearly  it  is  one  form  of 
gratitude,  and  perhaps  gratitude  never  shows  its 
face  in  form  more  sincere — this  gratitude  for 
several  delightful  hours,  obtained  for  the  price  of 
a  pair  of  gloves,  or  for  less,  through  a  subscrip 
tion  at  the  library ;  a  gratitude  responding  to 
those  who,  by  their  writings  and  for  a  modest 
pecuniary  recompense,  have  spread  learning,  de 
veloped  culture,  consoled  sorrow,  and  assuaged 
pain. 

FRANCIS  W.  HALSEY. 


[16] 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard 
In  East  Fifteenth  Street,  New  Tork 


BY    MR.    STODDARD 

Born  in  1825  In  Hingham,  Mass. 

Poems.      1852. 

Adventures  in  Fairy-Land.      A  book  for  young  people.      1853. 

Songs  of  Summer.      1857. 

The  King's  Bell.      1862. 

Abraham  Lincoln  :      An  Horatian  Ode.      1865. 

The  Book  of  the  East,  and  Other  Poems.      1871. 

The  Bric-a-Brac  Series.     [Editor  of]  Ten  vols.  1874-76. 

Anecdote  Biography  of  Shelley.    1876. 

Poems.    [Complete  Edition.]    1880. 

The  Lion's  Cub,  and  Other  Verses.      1890. 

Under  the  Evening  Lamp.     [Prose  essays.]      1892. 


I 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard 

In  East  Fifteenth  Street,  New  Tork 

EVEN  among  those  who  know  their 
New  York,  there  are  many  to  whom 
the  neighborhood  of  Stuyvesant  Square 
is  not  familiar.  For  anyone  who  prefers  the 
old  to  the  new,  it  is,  however,  one  of  the  most 
attractive  parts  of  the  city.  The  past  quarter 
of  a  century  has  touched  it  lightly ;  indeed, 
there  are  standing  not  a  few  landmarks  of  the 
town  of  fifty  years  ago.  On  the  corner  of 
Fourteenth  Street  and  Second  Avenue  is  the 
house  where  William  M.  Evarts  long  lived  and 
recently  died.  Not  far  away,  the  families  of 
Fish,  Rutherford,  Stuyvesant,  and  De  Voe  still 
live.  Richard  Grant  White  dwelt  for  a  time 
in  Stuyvesant  Square,  and  several  well-known 
artists  have  had  homes  and  studios  in  that 
neighborhood. 

Gramercy  Park  itself  is  not  more  than  a  few 
blocks  distant,  though  a  little  more  modern. 
This  park  has  always  been  a  favorite  with  liter 
ary  people,  not  only  those  who  frequent  The 
Players,  but  with  others — for  example,  W.  D. 
[19] 


American  Authors  &  rfheir  Homes 

Howells,  who  once  had  a  house  in  that  locality. 
It  has  had  its  charm,  too,  for  Samuel  J.  Tilden, 
Cyrus  W.  Field,  Abram  S.  Hewitt,  Spencer 
Trask,  and  John  Bigelow.  Before  going  to 
the  house  to  which  we  are  bound,  if  we  walk 
down  Second  Avenue  to  Tenth  Street,  we  may 
note  St.  Mark's  Church,  in  which  rest  the 
bones  of  Peter  Stuy  vesant,  who  in  dim  Colonial 
days  built  a  chapel  on  the  very  site  now  occu 
pied  by  the  church.  At  the  corner  of  Eleventh 
Street  is  the  New  York  Historical  Society, 
with  its  fine  collection  of  books,  portraits,  and 
manuscripts,  housed  in  a  building  which  has 
stood  for  fifty  years.  Returning  to  Stuyvesant 
Square,  we .  may  see  the  famous  St.  George's 
Church,  a  noble  edifice  now  bereft  of  its  twin 
steeples,  but  still  offering  contrast  with  the  old 
Friends'  Meeting-House,  standing  close  at 
hand. 

It  is  a  pleasant,  old-fashioned,  remote,  and 
altogether  quiet  region,  in  which  cable  cars  and 
telephone  wires  almost  seem  anachronisms.  It 
is,  and  it  is  not,  the  East  Side.  When  at  last  we 
have  reached  the  object  of  our  pilgrimage,  the 
home  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Richard  Henry  Stoddard, 
we  have  in  part  reconstructed  in  our  minds  the 
New  York  of  two  generations  ago.  On  the 
[20] 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard 

north  side  of  East  Fifteenth  Street,  at  No.  329, 
not  far  from  the  southeast  corner  of  Stuyvesant 
Square,  these  two  writers  for  more  than  twenty- 
five  years  have  had  their  dwelling-place.  The 
house  is  one  of  a  row  of  three-story  brick  edi 
fices,  with  a  covered  veranda  along  the  front. 

This  quiet  home  is  within  a  short  distance  of 
the  busiest  part  of  New  York,  and  yet  the  street 
is  as  secluded  as  those  of  small  suburban  towns. 
At  the  left  of  the  hall  one  enters  a  large  room, 
not  exactly  library  and  not  exactly  parlor.  It 
has  bookcases  as  well  as  easy-chairs,  bric-a-brac, 
and  pictures.  An  unmistakable  womanly  touch 
seen  in  the  arrangements  makes  the  visitor  at 
once  feel  at  home. 

Over  the  mantel  hangs  a  full-length  oil  por 
trait  of  an  officer  in  uniform,  Colonel  Wilson 
Barstow,  a-  brother  of  Mrs.  Stoddard,  who  was 
on  General  John  A.  Dix's  staff.  Opposite  is 
T.  W.  Wood's  portrait  of  Mr.  Stoddard.  Here, 
also,  are  paintings  by  Sanford  Giffbrd,  Eastman 
Johnson,  Bierstadt,  Smillie,  and  many  others. 
One  small  landscape,  a  view  near  Mattopoisett, 
was  a  gift  from  Bayard  Taylor.  Alexander 
Laurie's  noble  head  of  Mr.  Stoddard  is  also 
seen.  In  the  lower  room  hangs  one  or  two 
paintings  by  Lorimer  Stoddard,  the  playwright, 
[21] 


American  Authors  &  ^heir  Homes 

a  son  of  these  parents  who,  like  the  son  of  the 
Brownings,  has  artistic  talent  also.  Through 
the  half-drawn  portiere  the  visitor  has  a  glimpse 
of  the  dining-room  beyond,  with  its  old-fashioned 
furniture  and  open  fireplace. 

The  poet's  study,  on  the  second  story,  is  a 
genuine  workshop.  Here,  in  an  easy-chair  be 
fore  the  open  fire,  Mr.  Stoddard  may  be  found 
on  almost  any  winter  morning,  with  Mrs.  Stod 
dard  reading  or  writing  at  the  quaint  old  desk 
between  the  windows.  The  apartment  is  an 
ordinary  square  room,  made  more  spacious  and 
more  attractive  by  a  deep  alcove,  in  which 
stands  a  large  bookcase.  Other  bookcases  are 
seen  in  the  room,  and  almost  every  inch  of  ex 
posed  wall-space  is  covered  with  framed  etch 
ings,  photographs,  and  other  pictures  having 
some  personal  association.  Under  a  copy  of 
Lawrence's  portrait  of  Thackeray  hangs  an  au 
tograph  of  the  great  English  writer.  A  fine 
etching  of  Victor  Hugo  is  accompanied  also  by 
an  autograph.  Over  the  mantel  hangs  a  rare 
print  of  Blake's  "  Canterbury  Pilgrimage,"  and 
near  by  an  etched  portrait  of  Edmund  Clarence 
Stedman,  one  of  Stoddard's  best-loved  friends. 
A  series  of  photographs  in  one  frame  shows 
Lorimer  Stoddard  in  the  costumes  of  parts  in 
[22] 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard 

which  he  has  acted.  The  success  of  Lorimer 
Stoddard's  dramatization  of  "  Tess  of  the  D'Ur- 
bervilles,"  and  still  later  his  dramatization  of 
Crawford's  "  In  the  Palace  of  the  King,"  are 
still  fresh  in  many  minds. 

Wherever  the  eye  falls  in  this  pleasant  room, 
with  its  old-time  air  and  comfortable  furnish 
ings,  there  is  something  characteristic  to  be 
seen.  We  need  not  wait  for  Mr.  Stoddard  to 
say  he  prefers  old  poets  to  new,  for  we  recog 
nize  in  bookcases  the  old  English  poets,  with 
names  faintly  lettered  on  black  or  brown  backs, 
and  the  later  ones  in  the  familiar  blue  and  gold 
of  a  generation  ago.  Mr.  Stoddard's  collection 
of  old  poets  has  often  been  consulted  by  those 
who  have  made  a  special  study  of  them. 

Many  volumes  are  first  editions,  such  as 
Drayton's  poems  of  1619  and  Milton's  of 
1645.  Many  have  belonged  to  famous  men 
like  Waller,  Gray,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  Cole 
ridge,  Keats,  Wordsworth,  Lamb,  Southey,  and 
Byron.  Mr.  Stoddard  has  a  lock  of  hair  from 
Milton's  head,  the  genuineness  of  which  is  un 
disputed,  and  a  lock  of  the  hair  of  Washington. 
Of  manuscripts  and  autographs,  he  has  speci 
mens  from  Shenstone,  Burns,  Cowper,  Sheri 
dan,  Southey,  Scott,  Moore,  Campbell,  Dickens, 
[23] 


American  Authors  &  ^heir  Homes 

Bryant,  Longfellow,  Lowell,  Taylor,  Irving, 
the  Brownings,  and  Whittier. 

These  masters  of  literature  in  the  bookcases 
emphasize  the  enthusiasm  with  which  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Stoddard  speak  of  their  favorite  authors. 
We  recall  many  of  Mr.  Stoddard's  appreciations 
in  "  Under  the  Evening  Lamp,"  as  well  as  his 
admirable  critique  on  Burns  in  the  "  Library  of 
the  World's  Best  Literature."  As  we  listen  to 
Mrs.  Stoddard  expressing  her  fondness  for  Scott 
and  Miss  Austen,  we  remember  that  it  was  one 
of  the  joys  of  her  girlhood  to  browse  in  the 
library  of  the  Rev.  Thomas  Robbins  at  her  Mas 
sachusetts  home,  where  she  had  access  to  the  old 
English  classics.  When  we  look  at  the  heaps  of 
new  books  on  the  tables,  we  realize  that  few  men  of 
Mr.  Stoddard's  age  have  kept  themselves  so  thor 
oughly  in  touch  with  the  new  as  well  as  the  old. 

The  personal  reminiscences  which  he  is 
writing,  and  the  critical  department  which  he 
has  conducted  for  years  in  a  leading  New  York 
journal,  speak  forcibly  of  Mr.  Stoddard's  present 
activity.  For  many  years  he  has  devoted  him 
self  to  work  with  great  regularity,  being  en 
gaged  four  or  five  hours  during  the  day.  He  is 
a  believer  in  night-work,  but  semi-blindness  from 
cataract  in  later  years  has  obliged  him  to  alter  his 
[24] 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard 

habits.  In  reading  his  writings  we  realize  how 
little  the  inner  vision  has  been  impaired,  while 
his  conversation  shows  him  keen-sighted  as  ever. 
It  is  a  long  time  since  Mr.  Stoddard's  first 
printed  poem  appeared  in  The  Rover,  then 
under  the  editorship  of  Seba  Smith.  Stern  ne 
cessity  in  early  youth  after  his  father's  death  at 
sea,  obliged  him  to  take  up  occupations  far 
from  congenial.  It  was  a  fortunate  chance, 
perhaps,  that  took  the  mother  and  son  to  New 
York.  Bayard  Taylor  was  the  first  literary 
friend  of  his  own  age  whom  he  made.  The 
friendship  of  these  two  continued  strong  until 
the  last.  Mr.  Stoddard  was  twenty-eight  years 
old  and  already  married,  when,  through  Na 
thaniel  Hawthorne's  influence  with  Franklin 
Pierce,  he  received  an  appointment  in  the 
New  York  Custom-House,  which  he  held  for 
seventeen  years.  Editorial  and  other  duties 
have  kept  him  in  the  city  ever  since,  although 
with  genuine  feeling  he  has  said  : 

Me  whom  the  city  holds,  whose  feet 
Have  worn  its  stony  highways, 

Familiar  with  its  loneliest  street — 
Its  ways  were  never  my  ways. 

My  cradle  was  beside  the  sea, 

And  there  I  hope  my  grave  will  be. 
[25] 


American  Authors   &  T'heir  Homes 

Hingham,  the  birthplace  of  Mr.  Stoddard, 
is  still  one  of  the  most  attractive  of  Massachu 
setts  seaport  towns,  and  it  is  an  interesting  fact 
that,  though  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stoddard  met  first  in 
New  York,  the  latter  also  claims  a  Massachu 
setts  town  —  Mattapoisett — as  her  birthplace 
and  early  home.  Mrs.  Stoddard  was  long  a 
contributor  to  Putnam's  Magazine  and  to  Har 
per's  Monthly  from  its  earliest  numbers.  Her 
three  novels,  "  Two  Men,"  "  Temple  House," 
and  "  The  Morgesons,"  are  strong  in  character 
ization  and  wonderfully  fine  portrayals  of  New 
England  life.  A  new  edition  came  out  only  a 
few  years  ago,  and  another  is  now  in  prepara 
tion.  "The  Morgesons"  is  particularly  valua 
ble,  for,  though  it  may  not  be  entirely  autobio 
graphic,  it  is  so  to  a  large  extent.  When  Mrs. 
Stoddard's  scattered  poems  were  collected  in  a 
volume  a  few  years  ago,  they  received  high  praise. 

Mrs.  Stoddard  is  devoted  to  her  home,  and 
still  finds  love  of  books  a  great  resource.  She 
would  rather  read  the  old  than  the  modern  poets. 
She  is  not  fond  of  women's  clubs,  although  her 
views  on  most  subjects  are  broad  and  progres 
sive,  and  her  conversation  shows  the  cultured 
mind  that  has  made  her  friendship  valuable  to 
men  of  letters  and  her  companionship  precious 
[26] 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard 

to  her  husband.  So  thoroughly  abreast  of  the 
times  have  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stoddard  kept  them 
selves  that  to  call  them  "  venerable  "  seems  al 
most  a  misapplication  of  terms.  It  is  probably 
true,  however,  of  them  as  of  others,  that 

There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses, 
There's  a  balm  for  every  pain, 
But  when  Youth,  the  dream  departs, 
It  takes  something  from  our  hearts, 
And  it  never  comes  again. 

In  spite  of  these  lines,  Mr.  Stoddard  would 
probably  admit  that  age  possesses  many  charms 
that  do  not  belong  to  youth.  The  poem  in 
which  they  occur,  "Youth  and  Age,"  is  to 
many  the  most  representative  of  all  Mr.  Stod- 
dard's  lines.  One  of  his  other  famous  poems 
is  "  Abraham  Lincoln,"  which  he  has  called  an 
"  Horatian  ode."  It  was  struck  off  at  white 
heat  just  after  Lincoln's  death.  Its  noble  lines 
have  held  their  place  to  the  present. 

Mr.  Stoddard  has  a  fine  prose  style.  Much 
of  his  best  work  is  found  in  his  collected  essays, 
and  in  introductions  to  many  books  he  has 
edited — Poe  and  Swinburne,  and  volumes  of  se 
lections  from  English  writers.  As  a  poet  it  will 
be  long  before  any  shall  successfully  dispute  his 
place  as  our  leading  lyrist. 
[27] 


Burroughs 
In  West  Park-on-the-Hudson 


BY    MR.    BURROUGHS 

Born  in  1837  in  Roxbury,  N.   T. 

Wake  Robin.      1871. 

Winter  Sunshine.      1876. 

Birds  and  Poets,  with  Other  Papers.      1877 

Locusts  and  Wild  Honey.      1879. 

Pepacton  :  Notes  of  a  Walker.      1 88 1. 

Fresh  Fields.      1884. 

Signs  and  Seasons.      1886. 

Indoor  Studies.      1889. 

Riverby.      1894. 

Whitman  :  A  Study.      1896. 

The  Light  of  Day.      1898. 

Squirrels  and  Other  Fur  Bearers.      1 900. 


as 

k 
<*> 

§ 

s 

.as 


II 

John  Burroughs 

In  West  Park-on-t he-Hudson 

JOHN  BURROUGHS  "  at  home  "  may 
be  in  either  of  two  places,  but  they  are 
not  far  apart.  When  some  twenty-five 
years  ago  Mr.  Burroughs  quitted  Washing 
ton,  he  purchased  a  farm  of  about  a  dozen  acres, 
now  increased  to  twenty,  on  the  high  western 
bank  of  the  Hudson,  opposite  Hyde  Park,  in  a 
district  then  inhabited  by  the  Astors  and  now 
called  West  Park.  His  object  in  settling  here 
was  not  only  to  get  into  a  congenial  region,  but 
into  one  favorable  to  fruit-growing,  and  his  first 
care  was  to  plant  a  great  vineyard  on  the  river- 
ward  slope  of  the  hill  and  to  lay  the  foundations 
of  a  house  built  of  bluestone,  quarried  near  by, 
which  is  now  one  of  the  ornaments  of  the  river. 
A  large  part  of  it  was  the  work  of  the  owner's 
hands,  as  it  is  pleasant  to  think  a  homestead 
should  be.  A  semi  -  circular  driveway  leads 
from  the  vine-draped  entrance  to  the  old  Albany 
turnpike  that  bounds  the  property  on  the  west,  and 
about  the  rear  and  more  familiar  side  of  the  house 
lies  a  great  orchard,  between  whose  trunks  and 
[31] 


American  Authors  &  ^heir  Homes 

foliage  one  catches  glimpses  of  the  river,  the 
palatial  country-seats  of  Hyde  Park,  and  the 
Duchess  Hills  beyond. 

To  profit  by  the  inspiration  of  this  picture, 
with  its  singular  and  suggestive  blending  of  rus 
tic  quiet  and  the  world's  activities  as  displayed 
by  the  ever-moving  panorama  of  the  Hudson, 
and  also  to  secure  privacy  for  himself  and  his 
cronies,  Mr.  Burroughs  afterward  built  on  the 
brow  of  the  slope  a  small  study  sheathed  with 
chestnut  bark,  whose  inner  walls  are  covered 
with  books,  except  where  the  fireplace  offers  its 
good  cheer ;  but  from  these  books — so  miscel 
laneous  and  diverse  are  they — it  would  be  im 
possible  to  say  what  was  the  especial  bent  of  the 
owner,  for  never  did  writer  use  his  books  as 
tools  less  than  this  one.  In  this  cozy  retreat 
have  been  penned  some  of  the  sweetest  of  our 
author's  essays  on  outdoor  themes  and  some  of 
the  most  effective  of  his  critical  articles. 

"  Fresh  Fields  "  was  the  first  of  his  books  to 
be  made  there — the  fifth  in  a  series  that  began 
with  "  Wake  Robin."  This  latter  was  a  book 
that  to  me  (as  a  typical  reader)  was  like  a  cup 
of  water  to  a  thirsty  mind.  I  was  a  boy  in  a 
Western  town,  ardently  interested  in  animal 
life,  especially  birds,  but  without  companionship 
[32] 


John  Burroughs 

in  this  pursuit,  and  owning  only  a  single  book 
of  reference,  when  I  chanced  upon  "  Wake 
Robin."  The  beauty  of  its  style  appealed  to 
me,  of  course,  in  an  unconscious  sort  of  way, 
but  it  was  as  information  that  I  took  and  valued 
it.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  author  must  have 
grown  up  in  the  woods  much  as  I  was  doing, 
for  I  felt  a  kinship  with  him  that  must  arise 
from  a  similar  mental  experience. 

This  was  largely  true.  Born  on  a  farm  in 
the  beautiful  region  west  of  the  Catskills,  the 
chance  sight  of  an  unusual  and  brilliant  bird  ar 
rested  Burroughs's  attention  and  set  him  study 
ing  the  creatures  themselves,  for  books  then 
were  unattainable.  This  has  remained  the 
characteristic  of  the  man's  knowledge  of  Nature 
— what  he  has  seen,  not  what  he  has  read. 
Books  of  zoology  fill  the  smallest  shelf  in  his 
library,  and  they  relate  to  the  local  fauna.  He 
finds  all  the  material  he  wants  close  at  hand, 
and  his  method  of  utilizing  it  calls  for  little 
consultation  of  "  authorities  "  or  cabinets.  He 
is  never  concerned  about  making  contributions 
to  science,  directing  his  attention  rather  to  the 
poetic  and  moral  aspects  of  the  incident — the 
human  relations  it  possesses. 

It  was  natural  enough  that  his  dominant 
[33] 


American  Authors  &  T'heir  Homes 

tastes  and  the  influences  of  fresh  knowledge 
should  have  made  the  first  book  from  his  pen 
distinctively  one  of  facts  from  the  woods ;  but 
the  very  next  one,  "  Winter  Sunshine,"  showed 
a  diversion  toward  more  general  themes,  and  in 
its  successors  this  diversion  has  increased  until 
the  literary  view  has  taken  long  precedence  of 
the  scientific. 

Mr.  Burroughs  composes  largely  from  notes 
and  memoranda.  An  observation  of  some  fact 
or  incident  met  in  his  rambles  or  about  the  farm 
is  immediately  written  down  with  the  comments 
it  suggests.  Many  of  his  magazine  articles  and 
subsequent  book  chapters,  such  as  "  Notes  of  a 
Walker,"  are  simply  these  jottings  strung  to 
gether,  and  owe  their  verve  and  fragrance  of  the 
fields  to  their  origin.  Thus  the  actual  prepara 
tion  of  a  manuscript — Burroughs  never  dictates 
nor  uses  a  typewriter — is  rapid  and  sure.  An 
other  habit  is  that  of  filling  the  books  he  reads 
with  marginal  notes  or  pencilling  upon  the  fly 
leaves  giving  the  total  impression  left  upon  his 
mind  by  the  volume. 

The  beautiful  home  on  the  Hudson,  which  is 

named  "  Riverby,"  gives  a  title  to  one  of  Bur- 

roughs's  books,  and  a  commercial  name  to  thai 

more  profitable  branch  of  merchandise,  his  table 

[34] 


John  Burroughs 

grapes.  It  is  a  good  enough  summer-home  for 
Mrs.  Burroughs  and  Julian,  the  only  son,  who 
has  been  educated  at  Harvard  and  seems  to  in 
herit  the  tastes  and  literary  tendencies  of  his 
father.  Mrs.  Burroughs  has  never  written  for 
publication,  and  has  no  ambition  to  do  so  ;  but 
she  is  a  woman  of  vigorous  intellect  and  excel 
lent  judgment,  whose  comments  have  been  of 
great  value  to  her  husband,  especially  in  the  ear 
lier  part  of  his  career.  His  debt  is  greater,  how 
ever,  to  her  thrift  and  good  management,  oppos 
ing  to  the  easy  optimism  of  her  husband  an 
alert  sense  of  the  necessities  of  the  future  and  of 
the  proprieties  of  things. 

As  for  housekeeping,  the  like  of  her's  was 
never  seen.  Her  kitchen  and  dining-room,  look 
ing  out  into  the  orchard,  are  like  other  folks' 
parlors  for  continuous,  unblemished  neatness, 
and  woe  to  John,  or  you,  or  me,  or  any  other 
thoughtless  wight  who  disturbs  their  man-of-war 
tidiness  and  discipline. 

This  picturesque,  well-ordered  home  is  quite 
enough  summer-resort  for  Mrs.  Burroughs,  but 
Mr.  Burroughs  likes  something  more  camp-like 
for  warm  weather,  where  he  may  "  lie  round  " 
when  he  feels  like  it,  and  give  his  guests  that 
taste  of  the  country  in  its  wilder  aspects  which 
[35] 


American  Authors  &  ^heir  Homes 

everyone  seems  to  expect  of  him.  When,  there 
fore,  he  took  possession  a  few  years  ago  of  a 
tract  of  land  behind  the  rocky  hills  that  run  par 
allel  with  the  Hudson  at  West  Park,  and  be 
gan  to  open  it  to  cultivation,  he  also  decided  to 
build  a  summer-house,  and  this  is  the  second  of 
the  two  homes  of  which  I  spoke,  and  the  one 
where  he  may  usually  be  found  from  April  to 
November. 

The  road  to  it  takes  a  pleasant,  roundabout 
course  of  a  mile  and  a  half  through  the  woods, 
but  when  Burroughs  is  guide,  one  will  probably 
be  led  over  the  short  cut — a  climb  of  several 
hundred  feet  up  a  rough  path  through  the 
woods  covering  the  ridge.  It  is  a  heart-break 
ing  reception  for  many  of  his  visitors,  but  as  it 
is  in  keeping  with  their  ideal  they  pretend  to 
like  it,  and  their  host  is  grimly  unobservant  of- 
their  distress.  It  is  the  price  of  hero-worship. 
At  the  end  one  comes  out  suddenly  upon  a 
bowl-like  depression,  rimmed  round  by  reefs 
and  walls  of  blue-white  rock,  which  on  the  east 
rise  in  brush-covered  ledges  to  the  crest  of  the 
Schaafenberg. 

The  bottom  of  the  bowl  was  a  bog  overgrown 
with  small  woods  until  three  years  ago,  when 
Burroughs  and  his  men   began  to   clear,  drain, 
[36J 


and  grub  it  out,  and  now  it  is  an  absolutely 
level  area  of  black  peat  soil  covered  with  celery- 
plants  and  onions.  At  its  very  edge,  shielded 
from  the  east  wind  by  overlooking  cliffs,  stands 
"  Slabsides,"  a  house  built  of  stones  culled  from 
the  near-by  ledges  and  of  timbers  cut  in  the 
surrounding  woods.  It  is  covered  with  rough- 
barked  slabs  laid  horizontally  as  if  they  were 
real  logs,  and  has  a  broad,  elevated  porch,  whose 
posts  are  rough  cedar-trunks  shrouded  in  grow 
ing  vines.  Into  this  house  Mr.  Burroughs  put 
days  and  weeks  of  labor,  with  such  help  as  he 
could  get ;  but  it  is  the  massive  chimney — rough 
stone  outside  and  in — that  is  his  special  pride. 
Of  this  the  present  writer  has  said  elsewhere : 

Few  are  the  philosophers  who  could  have  done 
it,  for  the  hardened  muscles  of  a  man  familiar  with 
outdoor  work  were  needed  to  handle  these  heavy 
stones.  .  .  .  No  wonder,  then,  that  Mr.  Bur 
roughs  talks  with  pride  of  his  chimney  and  conjures  up 
recollections  of  adventure  with  each  old  rock  that 
faces  him  as  he  sits  before  a  blazing  fire,  watching  his 
black  tea-kettle  hissing  on  its  crane,  and  the  gnarled  old 
peat  roots  consume  into  coals  above  the  roasting  potato 
from  his  dooryard  patch.  By  the  warmth  and  light 
of  this  great  fire  the  inside  of  the  house  was  finished 
by  the  writer's  own  hands — finished  to  suit  himself. 
From  the  deep  ravine  at  the  head  of  the  swamp  he 

[37] 


264909 


American  Authors  &  ^heir  Homes 

brought  dozens  of  large,  straight  sticks  of  the  beautiful 
yellow  birch,  whose  bark  consists  of  thin,  papery 
layers  that  are  greenish-gray  and  silvery  and  golden 
and  reddish,  according  to  the  light,  and  as  lustrous  as 
satin.  Straight  and  smooth  are  these  beautiful  golden 
birches,  and  of  their  trunks,  standing  side  by  side,  he 
built  a  partition,  half  hiding  his  birchwood  bunk,  a 
stairway  to  the  capacious  loft,  and  an  ornamental 
mantel-shelf.  Two  sumachs,  branching  into  tripods, 
were  cut  off  and  set  upside  down  as  legs  for  a  study- 
table  of  plain  boards,  and  out  of  curiously  twisted 
stems  and  elbows  from  the  woods  were  constructed  a 
settee  and  other  quaint  bits  of  furniture. 

Such  is  "  Slabsides,"  and  here  in  summer  the 
master  lives  in  carpetless  ease  and  such  bachelor 
comfort  as  he  can  provide  for  himself,  carrying 
on  his  daily  affairs  and  now  and  then  accom 
plishing  a  few  hours  of  literary  work,  but  work 
is  always  cheerfully  laid  aside  when  visitors 
come  —  and  when  do  they  not  ?  —  men  and 
women  from  distant  corners  of  the  country, 
friends  from  near  by,  picnic  parties  of  young 
people  from  along  the  river,  bands  of  school 
teachers  and  student  girls  from  Vassar  Col 
lege,  slow-moving  farm  neighbors,  redolent  in 
person  and  speech  of  hay,  celery,  and  fruit. 
Few  authors  have  so  many  friends.  His  books 
seem  to  carry  him  into  cordial  relations  with  his 
[38] 


John  Burroughs 

readers,  and  countless  letters  come  from  every 
part  of  the  land  expressing  delight  and  grati 
tude,  discussing  facts  or  views,  offering  and  ask 
ing  information. 

I  am  betraying  no  secret  when  I  tell  you  that 
the  most  of  these  letters  are  from  women. 
Burroughs  has  been  called  "  a  woman's  author," 
and  it  is  certain  that  more  of  his  readers  and 
admirers  are  of  that  sex  than  of  the  masculine. 
It  is  the  nature  articles,  moreover,  not  the 
literary  ones,  that  interest  them.  Why  this 
marked  and  unsolicited  homage  by  womankind 
should  arise  in  this  case  is  hard  to  explain,  for 
as  often  as  not  the  woman  heard  from  with 
enthusiasm  knows  or  cares  little  as  to  natural 
history.  Is  it  that  these  delightful  essays  ask 
little  of  the  intellect,  but  appeal  to  the  senses, 
the  emotions,  the  poetic,  sensuous  aspect  of 
the  world  and  the  things  that  are  in  it  ? 
This  amounts  to  saying  that  on  the  average 
women  do  not  think  and  wish  only  to  feel ;  and 
also  that  they  intuitively  detect  in  this  writer  a 
man  sympathetic  with  them  and  their  views — 
an  epicure  of  the  epicureans,  who  in  his  heart 
shuns  exertion,  hates  facts,  and  is  satisfied  with 
passions  and  impressions.  This  is  the  part  of  a 
poet,  not  that  of  a  naturalist. 
[39] 


American  Authors   &  T'hefr  Homes 

And  yet,  notwithstanding  this  poetic  suscepti 
bility  and  his  facility  and  refinement  in  compo~ 
sition,  Mr.  Burroughs  has  never  printed  but  one 
poem  that  anybody  remembers,  but  this  is  fast 
becoming  familiar  household  verse  wherever 
English  is  spoken.  It  is  entitled  "  Waiting," 
and  begins  : 

Serene,  I  fold  my  hands  and  wait, 
Nor  care  for  wind,  nor  tide,  nor  sea. 

Published  first  in  The  Knickerbocker  in  1862, 
it  lay  buried  in  that  magazine  until  Whittier 
resurrected  it  and  embalmed  it  in  his  "  Songs  of 
Three  Centuries."  This  set  the  poem  going, 
and  it  daily  grows  more  popular.  The  verses 
are  not  remarkable  for  poetic  merit,  but  they 
awaken  a  grateful  response  in  the  hearts  of  per 
sons  of  a  certain  religious  cast  who  no  longer 
find  comfort  in  the  doctrines  of  their  fathers  as 
an  expression  of  faith  and  confidence  inherent 
in  all  thoughtful  men.  The  Theosophists  have 
made  it  one  of  their  hymns,  and  it  goes  into 
most  of  the  religious  anthologies.  It  is  inter 
esting  to  recall  that  Burroughs's  parents  were 
old-school,  or  "  Hard-Shell,"  Baptists,  in  whose 
creed  predestination  was  a  corner-stone  and  iron 
clad  Calvinism  the  bulwark,  and  this  is  the  result 
[40] 


of  their  teaching  as  filtered  through  the  mind  of 
their  more  broadly  visioned  son — Calvinism  sub 
limated. 

To  be  able  to  entertain  pilgrims  interested  in 
his  individuality  alone,  where  their  coming  would 
not  be  a  tax  upon  his  family,  was  one  of  the  pur 
poses  in  building  "  Slabsides,"  but  a  higher 
thought  was  to  "  get  near  to  nature "  in  that 
most  literal  meaning  of  a  phrase  which  has  taken 
on  a  touch  of  cant  recently. 

Mr.  Burroughs  once  confessed  that  he  had 
grown  tired  of  the  Hudson,  with  its  elegantly 
cliffed  shores  and  smoothly  gliding  surface. 
"  Everything  in  and  about  Riverby,"  he  said, 
"  is  in  '  good  form,'  and  it  is  all  too  tame  and 
domestic.  The  daintiness  and  trimness  and 
self-consciousness  of  the  landscape  all  along  the 
river  weary  me.  There  is  so  little  of  the  really 
human  and  living  about  it  that  a  man  who  likes 
wild  berries  and  weeds  and  a  chance  to  take 
his  coat  and  collar  off  in  hot  weather  and 
get  cool  on  the  front  porch  when  that  hap 
pens  to  be  the  breezy  place,  gets  perfectly 
sick  of  the  whole  villa  side  of  rural  civiliza 
tion.  I  felt  that  I  must  go  somewhere  and 
get  a  reviving  draught  from  nature's  breast 
and  forget  confectionery,  and  so  I  came  to 


American  Authors  &  tfheir  Homes 

this  rock-girt  swamp,  where  I  am  face  to 
face  with  something  savage  unhacknied  and 
elemental." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Burroughs  does  not  like 
civilization,  largely  because  of  its  troublesome- 
ness  in  the  way  of  conventions  and  restraints. 
He  enjoys  travelling  about  to  see  his  friends  in 
New  York  and  other  cities  (and  it  is  noteworthy 
that  almost  all  his  friends  are  citizens  of  great 
towns),  but  the  ordinary  attractions  and  amuse 
ments  of  the  city  beckon  to  him  in  vain.  He 
doesn't  own  a  "  dress  suit,"  and  does  not  wish 
to,  and  simply  would  not  enjoy  the  sort  of 
sociability  in  which  one  is  required.  No  man 
was  ever  more  sociable,  but  ceremonies  and  late 
hours,  and  the  eating  and  drinking  of  fancy 
things  are  no  part  of  his  notions  of  enjoyment. 
Hence  he  is  rarely  seen  after  dark  in  any  city, 
save  in  some  quiet  back  parlor,  where  one  may 
talk  and  smoke — but  Burroughs  does  not  even 
smoke ! 

Mr.  Burroughs  is,  in  fact,  a  true,  consistent, 
and  natural  democrat.  I  never  saw  but  one 
man  to  whom  his  demeanor  was  in  the  least  dif 
ferent,  so  far  as  I  could  perceive,  from  that  with 
which  he  greeted  his  farmer  neighbors  or  city 
friends,  and  I  have  seen  him  when  Ralph 
[42] 


John  Burroughs 

Waldo  Emerson  and  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 
and  Julia  Ward  Howe  and  a  score  of  other 
revered  men  and  women  were  in  the  same 
room ;  and  this  exception  was  a  man  who 
might  have  been  Burroughs's  running  mate — 
John  Muir  of  California  !  He  is  a  Democrat  in 
politics,  also — a  Cleveland  man,  a  free-trader,  a 
tremendous  hater  of  monopolies  and  trusts,  and 
came  so  near  voting  for  Bryan  that  if  he  escaped 
at  all  it  was  only  because  he  could  not  quite 
take  the  silver  medicine  for  the  social  ills  we 
find  so  many  and  so  noxious.  That  was  a  little 
too  much  for  a  man  who  spent  his  earlier  years 
in  charge  of  the  Government  bureau  for  the 
organization  of  National  banks  ! 

Mr.  Burroughs  has  at  least  three  more  books 
in  mind  to  be  added  to  the  beautifully  made, 
uniform  Riverside  Edition  of  his  works,  now 
numbering  ten  volumes.  He  is  still  vigorous 
in  body  as  well  as  mind,  and  is  likely  to  be 
heard  from  for  many  years  to  come.  During 
the  present  year  he  has  contributed  many  nature 
poems  to  the  leading  magazines. 


[43] 


Henry  van  Dyke 
In  Princeton,  N.  J. 


BY    DR.    VAN    DYKE 

Born  in  1852  in  Gcrmanto-wn,  Pa. 

The  Reality  of  Religion.      1884. 

The  Poetry  of  Tennyson.      1889. 

Sermons  to  Young  Men.     1893. 

The  Christ-Child  in  Art.      1894. 

Little  Rivers.      1895. 

The  Story  of  the  Other  Wise  Man.      1896. 

The  First  Christmas  Tree.      1897. 

The  Builders,  and  Other  Poems.      1897. 

The  Lost  Word.      1898. 

Fisherman's  Luck.      1899. 

The  Toiling  of  Felix,  and  Other  Poems.      1900. 

The  Ruling  Passion.      1901. 


£•> 

L, 


s 


Ill 

Henry  van  Dyke 
In  Princeton,  N.  J. 

DR.  HENRY  VAN  DYKE  lives  in 
an  intellectual  atmosphere  largely  of 
his  own  choosing  and  his  own  crea 
tion.  The  power  to  do  this  is  becoming  rare  in 
an  age  that  accepts  the  new  scientific  gospel  of 
heredity,  both  as  a  faith  and  as  a  limitation  of 
life.  High  thinking,  which  is  independent 
thinking,  is  one  of  the  things  which  have  been 
lost  with  the  "  homely  beauty  of  the  old  cause  " ; 
but  Dr.  van  Dyke  has  preserved  his  mental 
freedom,  and  is  neither  a  "  product  "  nor  a  dis 
ciple.  In  an  era  of  formula,  he  has  wrought 
out  his  own  system  of  philosophy  and  his  own 
intellectual  ideals. 

His  life,  for  more  than  twenty  years,  has  been 
clearly  divided  into  two  well-defined  and  almost 
equal  parts,  although  the  same  purpose  lies  at 
the  foundation  of  both.  He  has  been  known 
both  as  a  clergyman  and  a  scholar,  but  he  was 
neither  a  pedant  in  his  pulpit  nor  a  preacher  in 
his  books,  and  now  he  is  Professor  of  Eng 
lish  Literature  in  Princeton  University.  The 
[47] 


American  Authors  &  ^heir  Homes 

scholar's  half  of  his  life  has  been  spent  in 
labor  among  his  books — poems,  stories,  es 
says,  philosophies,  and  breezy,  wholesome,  in 
spiring  volumes  on  travel  and  sport — that  are 
sheltered  in  his  library  at  Princeton,  where, 
somewhat  more  than  a  year  ago,  he  became  a 
professor. 

Here,  of  course,  went  his  library,  his  papers, 
his  literary  accumulations  all,  when  he  departed 
from  what  he  called  the  "  Manse,"  that  house 
in  East  Thirty-seventh  Street  occupied  by  him 
while  pastor  of  the  Brick  Presbyterian  Church. 
In  his  pastoral  days  the  clerical  half  of  Dr. 
van  Dyke's  time,  at  least  its  workshop  part, 
was  passed  in  the  company  of  the  Fathers  and 
of  erudite  commentators,  in  the  snug  library  be 
hind  the  church. 

Avalon,  Dr.  van  Dyke's  Princeton  home, 
lies  only  a  step  from  the  main  thoroughfare  of 
that  university  town.  Across  the  road  from  the 
hedge  that  guards  the  lawn,  stands  the  home  of 
Grover  Cleveland,  and  from  the  semi-circular 
porch  jutting  out  from  the  piazza  through  which 
one  passes  to  enter,  are  seen  the  roofs  and 
towers  of  the  University,  scarcely  more  than 
gun-shot  away.  It  is  an  edifice  of  Colonial  de 
sign  and  Colonial  date,  its  erection  going  five 
[48] 


Henry  van  Dyke 

years  back  of  the  fight  at  Lexington,  and  a 
plot  ample  in  acreage  surrounds  it.  After  pur 
chasing  it,  Dr.  van  Dyke  made  considerable  re 
pairs  and  improvements  to  the  house,  both  out 
side  and  in,  so  that  one  scarcely  understands  at 
first  that  it  has  come  down  from  a  time  so  early. 
The  great  elm  which  shades  the  front  terrace 

O 

is  more  than  ninety  years  old,  and  spreads  its 
branches  over  100  feet. 

A  wide  and  full-length  hall  is  entered  from 
the  porch,  with  the  winding  stairway  at  the  far 
ther  end.  From  the  right  one  enters  the  parlor, 
a  room  of  spacious  proportions  ;  and  adjoining 
this  is  the  dining-room.  From  the  hall  on  the 
left  a  doorway  leads  into  the  library,  to  which 
has  been  accorded  the  entire  width  of  that  end 
of  the  structure  —  a  room  forty  feet  long, 
warmed  by  a  fireplace  framed  in  with  the  origi 
nal  Colonial  mantel,  with  bookcases  set  along 
the  walls,  here  and  there  in  the  form  of  alcoves, 
a  great  table  at  one  side  from  the  centre,  an 
ample  sofa  near  the  fireplace ;  and  opening  out 
from  beyond  the  table,  where  steps  rise  to  a  plat 
form,  is  a  sun-parlor,  from  which  one  goes  to 
the  study,  an  apartment  so  concealed,  even  in 
the  entrance  to  it,  that  no  stranger  ever  would 
suspect  its  existence — and  in  which,  except  to 
[49] 


American  Authors   &  ^heir  Homes 

his  secretary  and  the  most  favored  friends,  Dr. 
van  Dyke  is  never  at  home. 

When  some  favored  visitor  has  gone  down 
to  Princeton  for  a  night  at  Avalon,  he  will 
probably  arrive  in  time  for  a  drive  with  Dr. 
van  Dyke  through  the  University  grounds  and 
to  the  battle-field  a  few  miles  away.  On  return 
ing  he  will  find  himself  again  in  this  library  with 
a  cigar  at  his  disposal  before  dressing  for  dinner. 
Later  on,  when  he  has  descended  the  stairway, 
prandially  attired,  and  is  once  more  seated  before 
the  fireplace,  the  door  will  softly  open  and  in 
the  subdued  light  will  appear  a  gracious  figure, 
not  as  he  has  known  her  in  books,  but  arrayed 
for  festive  hours,  though  still  the  same,  "  My 
Lady  Greygown." 

Tennyson  is  the  first  thought  that  comes 
into  mind  upon  entering  the  library,  which  is 
a  storehouse  of  Tennyson  treasures  and  of  lau 
reate  memories.  Carved  in  white  marble,  the 
great  crowned  singer,  from  a  point  between  the 
large  windows,  looks  kindly  down  upon  you  and 
upon  rows  of  books  in  many  mahogany  cases 
and  alcoves — that  noble  face,  which  looks,  as 
Tennyson  said  of  Milton's,  "  like  a  seraph 
strong."  Many  of  these  books  have  a  peculiar 
charm  from  having  been  held  in  the  hands  of  the 
[50] 


Henry  van  Dyke 

master  himself.  There,  too,  are  all  the  volumes 
of  which  Tennyson  has  been  the  prolific 
cause,  for  he  was  not  only  fruitful  in  himself, 
but  was  "  the  cause  that  "  fruitfulness  "  is  in 
other  men."  Among  these  is  the  volume  of 
essays  with  which  Dr.  van  Dyke  has  indissolu- 
bly  joined  his  own  name  to  that  of  England's 
famous  laureate,  who,  like  his  predecessor  in 
the  same  office,  "  uttered  nothing  base." 

But  Tennyson  is  not  the  only  thought  that 
rises  here,  nor  the  last.  There  are  other  treas 
ures  and  other  life.  This  scholar  has  labored 
in  many  fields  and  has  forged  many  ideals  in 
various  intellectual  workshops.  A  dozen  vol 
umes  reveal  the  fecundity  of  his  own  mind. 
The  range  of  subjects  shows  that  if  in  early  life 
he  hitched  his  literary  wagon  to  a  star,  he  has 
not  been  content  to  make  this  his  only  claim  to 
recognition.  If  it  can  be  said  that  Tennyson 
helped  him  in  making  his  early  career,  it  can  be 
said  as  truthfully  that  Dr.  van  Dyke  has  more 
than  requited  this  by  services  which  have  made 
the  laureate's  claim  more  enduring,  for  they  have 
led  to  a  better  understanding  and  deeper  appre 
ciation  of  his  poetry. 

Dr.  van  Dyke  has  written  several  books  on 
religious  subjects — "  The  Reality  of  Religion," 


American  Authors   &  T'heir  Homes 

"  The  Story  of  the  Psalms,"  "  Sermons  to 
Young  Men,"  "  The  Gospel  for  an  Age  of 
Doubt,"  «  The  Christ-Child  in  Art."  But  his 
best  known  work  is  in  books  that  belong  dis 
tinctly  to  literature.  These  latter  are  "  The 
Poetry  of  Tennyson,"  "  Little  Rivers,"  "  The 
Story  of  the  Other  Wise  Man,"  "The  Lost 
Word,"  "  The  First  Christmas  Tree,"  two  vol 
umes  of  verse  entitled  "  The  Builders,"  and 
"  The  Toiling  of  Felix,"  and  that  latest,  already 
famous  volume,  "  Fisherman's  Luck." 

"  Little  Rivers  "  is,  in  truth,  the  harvest  of 
many  an  angling.  On  its  title-page  the  author 
has  placed  Colonel  Robert  Venable's  saying  con 
cerning  the  Experienced  Angler,  that  "  suppose 
he  take  nothing,  yet  he  enjoyeth  a  delightful 
walk  by  pleasant  Rivers,  in  sweet  Pastures, 
amongst  odoriferous  Flowers,  which  gratifie  his 
senses  and  delight  his  Mind,"  and  has  added 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson's  sentiment,  "  There  is 
no  music  like  a  little  river's." 

The  doctor's  fondness  for  angling  has  led  him 
along  the  upper  courses  of  many  a  stream,  and 
he  has  taken  many  things  besides  fish.  He  has 
brought  back  from  the  Restigouche,  the  Grande 
Decharge,  La  Belle  Riviere,  and  the  Saranac  not 
only  baskets  brimming  over  with  silvery  trout, 
[52] 


Henry  van  Dyke 

but  a  mind  weighted  down  with  pastoral 
thoughts  and  a  wholesome,  fragrant  philosophy 
of  the  woods.  All  through  its  pages  the 
heather  blooms  again,  the  fish  leap  glittering  in 
the  sweet  inland  waters,  and  birds  sing  in  the 
woods. 

Dr.  van  Dyke  last  summer  completed  his 
first  year  at  Princeton.  At  the  close  of  his  final 
lecture  an  interesting  demonstration  was  made 
by  one  of  his  classes,  the  "  elective  "  one.  A 
study  of  Browning  having  been  finished,  he  an 
nounced  that  he  should  never  again  have  the 
privilege  of  addressing  the  men  then  before  him 
as  students  in  Princeton,  and  added  :  "  Speed  on 
into  life's  work ;  fight  its  battles ;  be  men ; 
good-by."  Someone  at  that  moment  started  a 
rousing  "  locomotive  "  cheer,  which  every  stu 
dent  throat  took  up  until  the  air  reverberated 
with  vocal  thunder. 

During 'the  year  Dr.  van  Dyke  had  given  out 
to  his  seniors  a  rather  severe  course  of  collateral 
reading  in  English  poetry.  It  was  purely  op 
tional  with  the  students  to  pursue  it  or  not,  but 
he  tells  with  much  pride  that  five-sixths  of  the 
class  followed  the  entire  course.  Out  of  150 
men,  only  four  failed  to  pursue  some  part  of  it. 
Besides  his  university  work,  Dr.  van  Dyke  was 
[53] 


American  Authors   &  ^heir  Homes 

a  very  active  man  all  that  year.  He  visited 
many  other  colleges  and  universities,  delivering 
addresses,  lecturing,  and  preaching — considera 
bly  more  than  two  dozen  visits  in  all.  The 
commencement  season  took  him  on  a  tour 
through  the  South,  where  he  addressed  several 
collegiate  bodies. 

Returning  home,  he  prepared  at  once  for  his 
long-wished-for  salmon-fishing  trip  to  Canada 
of  a  fortnight's  duration,  after  which  he  was  to 
resume  work  on  a  new  book  which  he  expected 
to  have  ready  for  the  present  season — "  The 
Ruling  Passion."  Of  this  book  he  said  :  "  It 
is  fiction,  pure  and  simple ;  out-of-door  studies, 
showing  plain  humanity  in  action  on  nature's 
stage.  What  I  want  to  do  is  not  to  paint  a 
historical  period,  or  a  section  of  the  country, 
but  just  to  get  hold  of  the  real  drama  of  a  few 
men  and  women.  After  all,  they  are  very  much 
alike ;  whether  the  actors  dress  in  silk  or  home 
spun,  l  the  play's  the  thing.' >: 

"  The  Builders,  and  Other  Poems  "  was  Dr. 
van  Dyke's  first  book  of  verse.  It  is  a  slender 
volume,  likely  to  be  enlarged  and  enriched. 
Two,  at  least,  of  its  songs  have  already  become 
popular  favorites,  "  The  Fall  of  the  Leaves " 
and  "  An  Angler's  Wish."  These  poems  ex- 
[54] 


Henry  van  Dyke 

press  the  extremes  of  Nature's  moods — the  birth 
of  Spring  with  its  inspiring  fire  in  the  heart,  and 
the  death  of  Autumn  with  its  chill  and  gloom. 
In  the  one  the  angler  panteth,  like  the  hart  after 
the  water  of  the  brooks — 

When  tulips  bloom  in  Union  Square, 

And  timid  breath  of  vernal  air 

Goes  wandering  down  the  duety  town. 

And  in  the  other,  among  fallen  leaves, 

We  turn  on  gala  days  to  tread 
Among  the  rustling  memories  of  the  dead. 

"  The  Poetry  of  Tennyson "  brought  Dr. 
van  Dyke  his  first  fame  as  an  author.  It  rep 
resents  in  some  measure  the  entire  span  of  his 
literary  life.  It  was  in  fact  begun  in  college 
when  his  mind  first  turned  to  Tennyson.  He 
has  studied  the  poet  and  added  every  year  some 
thing  to  the  store  of  knowledge  and  thought  he 

O  O  O 

has  gathered.  He  has  recently  enlarged  the 
bibliography  for  the  ninth  edition. 

Dr.  van  Dyke's  literary  workshop,  just  off 
the  library  proper,  is  in  no  sense  a  lair  or  den. 
Its  aspect  is  bright,  wholesome,  and  stimulating. 
Its  windows  look  out  upon  the  lawn  where  sky 
and  "  sunny  spots  of  greenery  "  can  be  seen, 
[55] 


American  Authors  &  T'heir  Homes 

and  through  which  come  floods  of  light  and  air. 
The  study  is  further  brightened  by  pictures  on 
the  walls  and  books  which  speak  and  smile 
from  comfortable  covers.  On  the  desk  lie  the 
disjecta  membra  of  essays,  poems,  stories,  and 
possibly  books  which  await  articulation  and  the 
last  informing  touch  of  life.  A  wood-thrush  has 
built  her  nest  in  the  tree  that  shades  the  window, 
and  her  mate  sings,  morning  and  evening,  from 
the  tall  pine  near  by. 

The  Tennyson  case  of  books  is  the  most 
valued  treasure  of  the  house.  On  one  shelf  is 
a  set  of  Tennyson's  poems  as  they  appeared — 
all  first  editions  and  rare.  There  is  to  be  seen 
the  "  Poems  of  Two  Brothers,"  published  in 
1826,  which  contains  the  first-fruits  of  Tenny 
son's  mind.  There,  also,  is  a  slender  book, 
esteemed  above  all  its  fellows.  It  is  the 
poet's  second  volume,  published  in  1832,  and 
bears  on  its  fly-leaf  the  autograph  of  "  Barry 
Cornwall."  Pencil  marks  throughout  indicate 
the  passages  and  lines  that  most  pleased  its 
former  owner.  Another  early  edition  was 
owned  by  Mark  Pattison,  but  this  cautious 
scholar  did  not  risk  any  compromise  of  his 
judgment  by  indicating  his  favorite  lines.  Other 
first  editions  are  in  the  same  case — a  Lamb,  a 
[56] 


Henry  van  Dyke 

Coleridge,  a  Wordsworth,  and  a  full  set  of  Rob 
ert  Louis  Stevenson. 

Of  Tennyson  himself  Dr.  van  Dyke  has 
many  souvenirs.  He  visited  the  poet  by  invita 
tion  at  his  home  in  1892,  shortly  before  his 
death,  and  brought  back  the  portrait  that  now 
hangs  on  the  library  wall.  "  I  wanted  the  poet 
to  write  something  of  his  own  under  the  pict 
ure,"  said  Dr.  van  Dyke,  "and  asked  him  to 
write  for  me  the  two  famous  lines  from  the 
1  Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  ' : 

'  Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island  story 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory.' 

When  he  handed  me  the  picture  I  glanced  at  the 
bottom  to  see  what  he  had  written,  and  read  there : 

'  Love  took  up  the  harp  of  life  and  smote  on  all  the 

chords  with  might  ; 

Smote  the  chord  of  self  that,   trembling,   passed  in 
music  out  of  sight.' 

He  had  chosen  as  a  sentiment  the  unselfishness 
of  love  rather  than  the  reward  of  fame.  This 
was  only  six  weeks  before  the  poet's  death." 

Tennyson  impressed  Dr.  van   Dyke  as,  per 
haps,  the  greatest  personality  he  had  ever  seen  ; 
although   in    a    very    different    way  he    felt   the 
force   and   greatness   of  Bismarck,   Grant,  and 
[57] 


American  Authors  &  Their  Homes 

Robert  E.  Lee.  This  portrait  was  the  one  the 
poet  liked  best,  and  reveals  more  than  any  other 
the  fire  of  song  and  prophecy  aglow  behind 
great  luminous  eyes. 

Dr.  van  Dyke  has  no  set  time  for  literary 
work,  but  goes  to  his  tasks  when  opportunity, 
apart  from  his  University  duties,  offers,  or  when 
the  mood  calls  him.  Above  all  pleasures  he 
prefers  that  of  angling,  and,  like  Dr.  Paley,  is 
quite  ready  to  put  aside  almost  any  work  until 
"  the  fly-fishing  season  is  over."  His  desk  is 
close  to  the  window,  and  he  says  that  when  the 
green  leaves  come  forth  on  the  shrubs  of  the 
lawn  stretching  away  to  the  roadway  which 
divides  this  home  from  the  home  of  Grover 
Cleveland,  his  heart  immediately  takes  flight  to 
the  forests  and  streams. 

"  I  watch  those  trees  closely,"  he  said,  "  for 
the  first  touch  of  spring.  I  can  see  the  first 
buds  that  burst  through  their  rough  winter  cov 
ering,  and  then  I  know  that  spring  is  abroad  in 
the  mountains,  and  that  fish  are  running  in  a 
hundred  clear  streams.  It  is  very  hard,  then,  to 
stay  at  home,  and  I  generally  manage  so  I  can 
get  out  to  spend  a  day  close  to  nature's  heart, 
for  my  real  study  and  workshop  are  in  the 
woods — not  here." 

[58] 


Frank    R.  Stockton 

Near  Charles  Town^  W.  Va. 


BY    MR.  STOCKTON 
Born  in  1834  in  Philadelphia 

Rudder  Grange.      1879. 

The  Lady  or  the  Tiger  ?     1884. 

The  Casting  Away  of  Mrs.  Leeks  and  Mrs.  Aleshine.      1886- 

The  Late  Mrs.  Null.      1886. 

The  Great  War  Syndicate.      1889. 

Ardis  Claverden.      1890. 

Pomona's  Travels.      1890. 

The  Squirrel  Inn.      1891. 

The  Adventures  of  Captain  Horn.      1895. 

Mrs.  Cliff's  Yacht.      1896. 

The  Girl  at  Cobhurst.      1898. 

The  Great  Stone  of  Sardis.      1898. 

The  Associated  Hermits.      1899. 

The  Vizier  of  the  Two  Horned  Alexander.      1899. 


6 

I 


IV 

Frank   R.  Stockton 

Near  Charles   Town,  W.  Va. 

MR.  STOCKTON'S   home   in  West 
Virginia  lies  three  miles  from  Charles 
Town,  founded  by  General  Wash 
ington's  brother  Charles.      Here  the  visitor  finds 

O 

himself  in  the  valley  of  a  stream  otherwise  his 
toric,  since  it  is  forever  linked  with  the  fame  ot 
Sheridan  —  the  Shenandoah.  Claymont  is  the 
name  of  Mr.  Stockton's  home.  It  stands  nearly 
a  mile  back  from  the  road,  and  the  drive  to  its 
doorway  runs  through  a  beautiful  wood.  Law 
yers  who  have  searched  the  title  have  traced  it 
back  to  George  Washington,  its  150  acres  being 
part  of  an  estate  of  3,000  which  the  first  Presi 
dent  once  owned.  Indeed,  the  house  itself  has, 
in  a  sense,  come  down  from  Washington.  It 
was  he  who  planned  it,  although  its  actual  con 
struction  was  the  achievement  of  a  grand-nephew 
of  his.  The  name  came  from  an  estate  in 
England  associated  with  the  Washington  family. 
The  house  is  built  of  brick,  light  yellow  in 
color,  and  in  size  is  spacious,  having  a  roof 
pierced  by  dormer  windows,  two  deep  and  lofty 
[61] 


American  Authors  &  ^heir  Homes 

verandas,  an  ample  portico,  and  a  conservatory. 
To  the  east  and  west  stand  smaller  structures, 
one  occupied  by  servants,  the  other  utilized  by 
visitors  when  the  main  building  is  fully  in  re 
quisition,  the  two  being  connected  with  the  house 
by  brick-walled  court-yards.  The  view  takes  in 
a  noble  prospect  of  meadow  and  mountains, 
the  Blue  Ridge  stretching  away  for  twenty  miles 
to  the  South. 

Within,  one  finds  a  spacious  hall  panelled  in 
oak,  out  of  which  open  parlor,  dining-room,  and 
library,  the  latter  room  leading  to  another,  which 
is  the  study,  lighted  by  six  double  windows. 
Near  one  of  these  windows  stands  an  open 
desk,  and  in  the  centre  of  the  room  a  large 
table  laden  with  books  of  reference.  Here  Mr. 
Stockton  usually  spends  three  of  the  morning 
hours,  and  here  were  read  the  proofs  of  the  new 
complete  edition  of  his  writings  to  which  he  has 
given  the  name  of  Shenandoah. 

But  this  house  has  been  his  home  for  not 
more  than  two  years.  For  a  long  time  previous 
he  had  lived  in  that  beautiful  region  of  high  and 
rolling  land  which  stretches  from  Summit  to 
Morristown  in  New  Jersey,  where  man  and 
nature  have  joined  hands  in  creating  an  earthly 
paradise.  His  New  Jersey  home  stood  near 
[62] 


Frank  R.  Stockton 

Convent  Station,  and  there  all  his  recent  books 
have  mainly  been  written. 

It  is  in  a  hammock  swung  in  a  piazza,  adjoin 
ing  his  study,  or  when  not  in  a  hammock  in  the 
easiest  of  easy-chairs,  that  Mr.  Stockton  likes  to 
work.  From  a  room  on  the  other  side  of  his 
"  study-garden  "  (for  Mr.  Stockton  dislikes  the 
typewriter's  clicking  and  has  banished  the  ma 
chine  as  far  as  possible)  the  secretary  comes,  and, 
notebook  in  hand,  quietly  seats  herself.  Silence, 
long  drawn  out  and  perhaps  never  broken,  ex 
cept  by  Mr.  Stockton's  voice,  then  prevails,  the 
secretary  finally  leaving  at  the  announcement  of 
luncheon.  From  the  hammock's  depths  or  from 
the  recesses  of  a  great  chair,  a  measured,  vibrat 
ing  voice  has  spoken  out,  and  down  in  the  note 
book  has  gone  the  first  draught  of  the  latest  of  the 
thousand  and  one  curious  tales  with  which  Stock 
ton  has  been  delighting  America  and  England, 
the  Continent,  the  colonies,  and  even  the  tropics, 
for  at  least  a  quarter  of  a  century. 

In  all  probability  this  remarkable  man  stands 

alone  in  his  methods  of  work.     Without  making 

o 

a  note,  without  a  scrap  of  synopsis,  he  carries 
his  novels  in  his  head,  oftentimes  letting  the 
story  build  itself  up  over  a  period  of  years. 
When  ready  to  write  he  calmly  speaks  it  off  to 
[63] 


American  Authors  &  rfheir  Homes 

the  young  girl.  This  first  draught,  made  from  the 
head  alone,  for  he  never  touches  pen  to  paper, 
becomes  practically  the  final  draught.  Mr.  Stock 
ton  seldom  cares  to  touch,  in  the  way  of  correc 
tion,  the  typewritten  sheets. 

There  is  nothing  more  striking  about  Mr. 
Stockton  than  his  simplicity.  His  sanctum, 
whence  novel  after  novel  has  gone  forth, 
has  nothing  that  savors  of  the  "  shop."  As  the 
writer  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  study  it  seemed 
what  also  might  have  been  the  very  delightful 
"  morning-room  "  of  a  British  country  gentle 
man  of  leisure  and  means.  There  was  no  litter 
of  proofs  and  manuscripts  ;  there  were  no  heaps 
of  reference-books,  none  of  the  things  usually 
thought  to  be  the  stock-in-trade  of  the  modern 
author.  Not  many  books  were  to  be  seen  ;  but 
easy-chairs,  a  great  settee,  a  desk  for  corre 
spondence,  a  table  or  two,  a  cabinet  of  pipes, 
and  some  bookcases,  one  of  which  holds  the  va 
rious  editions  of  his  own  works,  and  another  an 
encyclopedia. 

A  roomy  chair  spread  its  depths  at  his  caller's 
side.  "  My  year,"  said  Mr.  Stockton, "  is  eight 
months  long  on  the  average.  I  am  just  back, 
after  having  been  in  New  York  and  Washington 
for  some  months.  All  my  extended  work  is 
[64] 


Frank  R.  Stockton 

done  in  this  study,  though  I  frequently  write 
short  stories  and  do  other  '  immediate '  work 
during  the  winter." 

A  personality  more  winsome  and  delightful  it 
would  be  difficult  to  find.  A  small  man  sits  be 
fore  you,  keen-eyed — those  eyes  that  miss  noth 
ing — his  mustache  and  hair  iron  gray.  Photo 
graphs  give  no  hint  of  the  man  ;  they  do  not 
even  mirror  his  personal  appearance.  Nothing 
save  a  talk  with  him  gives  you  that. 

Here — and  you  realize  it  as  you  watch  his 
eyes — is  the  "  funster  "  of  two  continents,  not 
the  swashbuckler  comedian  or  the  gross  funny 
man  that  plasters  his  wit  and  delivers  it  crude ; 
but  the  comedy  man  of  human  life,  who  even 
in  serious  moments  notices  the  humor  and  the 
merriment,  and  tells  it  with  delicacy  and  wit 
that  set  old  men  and  severe  matrons,  young 
girls  and  men  of  affairs,  laughing  at  they  know 
not  what.  Always  on  the  watch  for  curious 
phases  of  human  life,  he  builds  up  from  what 
he  sees,  travelling  to  refresh  his  mind,  meeting 
new  men  and  women,  parts  and  portions  of 
whose  characters  he  will  weave  some  day  into 
one  of  his  novels. 

Historians  of  literature  will  never  find  out 
where  Mr.  Stockton  gets  his  most  delightful 
[65] 


American  Authors  &  ^heir  Homes 

characters,  for  Mr.  Stockton  scarcely  knows  him 
self.  They  grow  in  his  mind,  and  are  variations 
of  people  he  has  met.  They  are  so  real  that  men 
and  women  constantly  write  to  him  about  them. 
The  correspondence  regarding  "  The  Lady  or 
the  Tiger  ?  "  has  not  yet  ceased.  "  I  answer 
only  those  letters  that  seem  to  me  to  be  worth 
answering,"  said  Mr.  Stockton.  "  I  would 
have  little  time  to  do  anything  else  if  I  should 
undertake  to  answer  them  all.  Do  you  know 
that  at  one  time  I  seriously  thought  of  having  a 
printed  slip  saying  that  I  really  did  not  know 
which  it  was — this  being  for  the  Lady  or  the 
Tiger  controversy  !  Requests  came  in  so 
rapidly,  and  they  still  come.  Only  the  other 
day  I  got  a  package  of  opinions  from  the  schol 
ars  of  a  literature  class  in  a  Western  school." 

Mr.  Stockton  was  soon  in  full  conversational 
swing.  We  were  standing  by  the  bookcase 
taking  out  volumes  of  his  works,  early  and  late 
— "  Ting-a-Ling  "  in  the  oldest  of  old-fashioned 
bindings,  a  collection  of  fairy  stories  written 
about  1870;  the  first  edition  of  "Rudder 
Grange,"  which  has  one  baby  in  it  (the  origi 
nal  papers  in  the  old  Scribner's  Monthly  had 
no  baby,  and  when  the  book  was  made  up  a 
final  "  baby  chapter "  was  tacked  on) ;  the 
[66] 


Frank  R.  Stockton 

second  edition,  which  has  three  babies  ;  and  the 
third,  that  has  only  two.  Pomona's  baby  was 
finally  dropped  out  of  existence,  for  the  reason 
that  the  author  wanted  Pomona  and  Jonas  to 
have  a  series  of  adventures  in  Europe,  and  with 
a  baby  these  adventures  would  have  been  im 
possible. 

"  I  can  tell  you  a  story  about  Pomona,"  said 
Pomona's  creator,  "  and  this  baby.  I  had 
planned  out  the  book  of  Pomona's  travels  and 
was  about  ready  to  write  it.  I  was  in  Phila 
delphia  at  the  time,  and  had  a  business  appoint 
ment  with  my  dentist,  an  old  friend.  By  the 
way,  you  should  never  change  your  dentist  any 
more  than  you  should  your  plumber.  Both  will 
want  to  take  out  the  work  of  their  predecessors, 
swearing  that  it  was  done  very  badly.  Well, 
while  in  the '  chair  I  got  to  talking  with  this 
friend  about  my  new  book.  I  told  him  I  had 
serious  thoughts  of  killing  that  baby.  He  was 
much  interested.  We  talked  over  the  advisa 
bility  of  doing  this,  and  while  he  was  not  quite 
convinced  he  in  the  main  agreed  with  me. 

"  I  had  been  finished  with,  and  clasping  his 

hand   went  into  the   waiting-room   on   my  way 

out.     This  waiting-room  was  filled  with  women. 

As  I  passed  through  the  door  I  heard  him  call : 

[67] 


American  Authors  &  T'heir  Homes 

4  Then  you  have  positively  decided  to  kill  that 
baby  ? '  '  Positively,'  I  replied.  You  should 
have  seen  the  women  stare.  It  was  not  until 
I  got  well  out  in  the  hallway  that  I  realized 
what  they  must,  of  course,  have  been  thinking. 

"  Pomona  actually  existed  in  real  life.  She 
was  a  charity  girl  we  employed  (she  was  about 
fourteen),  and  she  had  precisely  the  same  taste 
for  books  and  reading  aloud  to  herself,  as  the 
Pomona  of  the  story.  She  had  a  name  that  I 
now  forget,  but  I  know  it  was  an  assumed  one, 
it  was  so  romantic.  We  finally  had  to  send 
her  back  to  the  institution,  she  was  so  untidy. 
What  became  of  her  we  never  heard.  She  al 
ways  said  she  would  go  upon  the  stage.  Of 
course,  Pomona  c  happened  '  years  ago,  possi 
bly,"  and  Mr.  Stockton's  face  took  on  an  in 
scrutable  expression ;  "  she  may  now  be  one  of 
the  popular  actresses  under  another  name. 

"  Only  Pomona  as  a  young  girl  is  real,  how 
ever.  Pomona  grown  up  is  purely  imaginary. 
So  are  the  doings  of  Mrs.  Leeks  (some  people, 
I  regret  to  say,  will  call  her  Mrs.  Leeks)  and 
Mrs.  Aleshine.  I  thought  Mrs.  Aleshine's 
name  was  simple  enough,  but  I  got  many  letters 
asking  if  her  name  was  not  pronounced  Al-e- 
shi-ne.  It  is,  really,  Ale-shine.  Well,  they  are 
[68] 


Frank  R.  Stockton 

two  old  ladies  I  knew  that  I  started  off  and  im 
agined  a  series  of  adventures  for.  They  actually 
did  exist. 

"  It  is  much  more  to  my  liking  to  write 
about  middle-aged  women  than  young  women. 
The  older  ones  have  more  character ;  you  can 
make  them  do  more  amusing  things. 

And  so  Mr.  Stockton  in  a  simple  way  ran  on 
with  his  anecdote  and  description.  He  told  of 
the  pressing  offers  that  came  to  him  to  rewrite 
his  "  Great  War  Syndicate  "  and  put  Spain  in 
the  place  of  England  in  that  story,  altering  it  so 
as  to  kill  some  people  (for  the  "  War  Syndicate  " 
tale  is  a  remarkable  battle  story  in  that  there  is 
only  one  man  killed  in  all  its  pages — and  he  by 
accident).  This  offer  he  refused.  He  told  how 
"  Rudder  Grange  "  is  still  selling,  and  how  fresh 
generations  of  young  people  discuss  "  The  Lady 
or  the  Tiger  ?  "  Also  how  that  truly  great  story 
has  been  twice  translated  into  Japanese ;  once 
literally,  and  again  told  in  the  words  of  a  Jap 
anese  story-teller.  Neither  of  these  Japanese 
editions  has  Mr.  Stockton  ever  been  able  to  get. 
None  of  his  English  friends  in  Japan  can  find 
them.  As  Mr.  Stockton  remarks,  "  They 
really  wouldn't  know  them  if  they  saw  them, 
you  know." 

[69] 


American  Authors  &  tfheir  Homes 

"  Ardis  Claverden,"  he  said,  in  response  to  a 
question,  "  is,  I  think,  my  favorite  woman  char 
acter.  She  is  probably  the  least  well  known  of 
my  women,  however.  But  I  am  very  fond  of 
her.  I  had  a  hard  time  to  find  her,  as  you 
shall  hear.  I  couldn't  seem  to  run  across  the 
type  I  wanted.  I  hunted  and  hunted.  At 
last,  talking  about  it  to  the  principal  of  a  girls' 
school,  I  got  permission  from  her  to  go  through 
the  school  and  talk  to  the  older  girls.  But  it 
was  in  vain.  None  of  the  girls,  of  course, 
knew  of  my  quest,  but  I  couldn't  find  my  char 
acter.  One  day  I  was  talking  my  problem  over 
with  a  certain  eminent  authoress — no,  I  will 
not  say  who  she  was — and  an  idea  struck  me. 
The  idea  grew  upon  me.  Ardis  Claverden  was 
finally  modelled  upon  her." 

"  The  Late  Mrs.  Null,"  Mr.  Stockton  said, 
was  his  best  selling  book ;  that  is,  it  had  the 
greatest  number  of  sales  within  a  few  months 
of  its  issue.  This,  it  will  be  remembered,  was 
his  first  long  novel.  Before  its  appearance 
everyone  had  said  he  was  a  short-story  man 
alone,  and  could  never  write  anything  more 
than  that. 

"  The  hardest  work  I  have,"  Mr.  Stockton 
went  on  in  his  magnetic  way,  "  is  naming  my 
[7o] 


Frank  R.  Stockton 

characters.  Many  of  them  are  completely 
made  up,  others  are  suggested  by  something, 
others  are  slightly  changed  from  real  names.  I 
seldom  use  a  name  that  in  itself  is  a  description 
of  the  character.  That  was  Dickens's  way, 
you  remember.  Nevertheless,  sometimes  one 
of  my  names  does  describe  the  character.  Take 
Tippengray  of  c  The  Squirrel  Inn.'  Tippen- 
gray  was  a  man  whose  hair  was  slightly  tipped 
with  gray.  I  always  liked  that  name.  Chip- 
perton  in  c  A  Jolly  Fellowship  '  is  very  descrip 
tive  also.  Ardis  in  '  Ardis  Claverden  '  is  an  old 
family  name  of  mine.  My  mother  was  a  Vir 
ginian,  and  I  had  lived  a  great  deal  down  South 
before  coming  to  Charles  Town." 

Here  and  there  diversions  in  this  conversa 
tion  were  caused.  Mrs.  Stockton  now  and 
then  appeared.  Plumbers  were  in  the  house, 
and  Mr.  Stockton  was  appealed  to.  He  made 
answer,  but  would  not  budge  from  the  room. 
Any  other  mechanic  he  will  follow  up ;  a  car 
penter  and  a  paperhanger  he  will  meet  on  open 
ground  ;  but  plumbers,  he  says,  work  too  much 
underground  and  under  floors  ;  they  are  alto 
gether  too  mysterious,  and  he  will  have  naught 
to  do  with  them. 

At  last  the  writer  came  to  a  question  he  had 


American  Authors  &  ^heir  Homes 

long  feared  to  ask,  for  it  was  the  question  Stock 
ton  has  been  asked  ten  thousand  times.  How 
ever,  when  well  nerved  up  for  the  task,  the 
question  came.  "  Was  it  —  "  and  then  Mr. 
Stockton  smiled  kindly,  though  a  shade  wearily, 
and  responded :  "  I  do  not  know.  I  really 
have  never  been  able  to  decide  whether  the 
Lady  or  the  Tiger  came  out  of  that  door.  Yet 
I  must  defend  myself.  People  for  years  have 
upbraided  me  for  leaving  it  a  mystery ;  some 
used  to  write  me  that  I  had  no  right  to  impose 
upon  the  good-nature  of  the  public  in  that 
manner.  However,  when  I  started  in  to  write 
the  story,  I  really  intended  to  finish  it.  But  it 
would  never  let  itself  be  finished.  I  could  not 
decide.  And  to  this  day,  I  have,  I  assure  you, 
no  more  idea  than  anyone  else. 

"  Only  the  other  day  some  young  ladies  up  in 
Maine  dramatized  it,  and  sent  me  costume  pho 
tographs  and  a  copy  of  the  little  play. 

"  Perhaps  the  most  interesting  thing  about 
4  The  Lady  or  the  Tiger  ? '  is  its  great  popu 
larity  among  savage  races.  It  has  been  told 
again  and  again  by  the  story-tellers  of  Burmah. 
The  Burmese  say  its  '  local  color '  is  correct. 
A  missionary  once  told  the  story  to  a  tribe  of 
Karens  up  in  the  north  of  Burmah.  When  she 

[72] 


Frank  R.  Stockton 

came  back  a  year  later  the  tribe  surrounded  her 
and  wanted  to  know  if  she  had  found  out  yet 
whether —  I  cannot  answer  the  question," 
and  a  twinkle  appeared  in  Mr.  Stockton's  eye, 
"  for  I  have  no  earthly  idea  myself." 


[73] 


Hamilton   Upright    Mabie 
In  Summit,  N.  J. 


BY    MR.    MABIE 
Born  in  1843  in  Cold  Spring,  N.   Y. 

Norse  Stories  Retold  from  the  Eddas.      1882. 

My  Study  Fire.      1890. 

Old  New  England.      1890. 

Short  Studies  in  Literature.      1891. 

Under  the  Tree  and  Elsewhere.      1891. 

Essays  in  Literary  Interpretation.      1892. 

Essays  on  Nature  and  Culture.      1896. 

Books  and  Culture.      1896. 

Essays  on  Work  and  Culture.      1898. 

In  the  Forest  of  Arden.      1898. 

The  Life  of  the  Spirit.      1899. 

William  Shakespeare,  Poet,  Author  and  Man.      1900. 


V 


Hamilton   bright    Mabie 
In  Summit,  N.  J. 

A  JERSEY  suburban -town,  high  among 
the  hills  that  stretch  westward  of 
New  York,  at  the  very  top  of  the  up 
lands  and  so  far  above  the  other  towns  of  the 
region  that  from  time  immemorial  it  has  borne 
the  name  of  Summit,  is  the  home  of  one  of  the 
brightest,  most  sympathetic,  and  widely  read 
essayists  of  our  time — Hamilton  Wright  Mabie. 
Since  George  William  Curtis  laid  down  his  pen, 
Mr.  Mabie  has  risen  to  be,  perhaps,  America's 
best  admired  and  most  influential  writer  of  what 
may  be  called  the  literature  of  criticism  and  in 
terpretation. 

The  home  is  typical  of  the  man.  It  lies  on 
the  outer  border  of  Summit.  It  is  not  an  old 
Jersey  mansion,  but  a  newly  built  house  of  Co 
lonial  character,  planned  on  the  most  modern 
American  lines.  Its  windows  look  out  on 
groves  of  hickory  that  are  gray  and  picturesque 
in  the  springtime.  Within,  it  has  peculiar 
charm.  The  wide  hallway  is  hung  with  photo 
graphs  and  prints  of  makers  of  books  and  scenes 
[77] 


American  Authors   &  ^lieir  Homes 

connected  with  them,  several  of  especially 
famous  men  bearing  interesting  autographs  of 
presentation.  A  reception-room  that  is  practi 
cally  part  of  the  hall  is  entered  at  the  left.  To 
the  right,  for  drawing-room  read  library,  for, 
beside  the  great  fireplace,  there  is  not  an  inch 
of  the  walls  that  is  not  covered  with  books. 

Here  stand  poetry  and  prose,  in  serried 
shelves  that  rise  to  the  ceiling  and  seem  jealous 
of  the  space  the  windows  take.  It  is  not  a 
household  of  the  sciences  or  the  ologies.  These 
books  stand  for  precisely  what  Mabie,  the  essay 
ist,  is — a  representation  of  that  broad  culture 
which  is  mind-training,  while  soul-training,  that 
does  not  stop  at  bald  figures  and  bare  facts,  but 
takes  the  lesson  out  of  each,  and  from  all  builds 
up  a  life.  But  Mr.  Mabie's  philosophy  of  cult 
ure  needs  no  explaining ;  and  if  there  are  some 
for  whom  such  need  exists,  let  them  learn  it  in 
our  essayist's  own  words,  "  My  Study  Fire,"  or 
in  "  Under  the  Trees,"  or  in  "  Work  and  Cult 
ure,"  or  elsewhere  in  any  one  of  the  many 
volumes  he  has  penned — a  long  line  and  the 
most  notable  of  them  all,  the  most  recent,  the 
volume  on  Shakespeare,  in  which  he  is  believed 
to  have  put  his  finest  work. 

Mr.  Mabie  is  the  essence  of  cheer,  and  greets 
[73] 


Hamilton  Wright  Mabie 

you  with  a  merry  smile.  He  is  of  two  sides, 
this  man,  of  sun  and  shade,  of  shadow  and  light, 
now  deep,  serious,  reflective,  and  now  witty  and 
sparkling.  The  light,  airy  trifle,  nevertheless, 
has  no  place  in  his  make-up.  Behind  his  droll 
ing  there  is  a  substantial  thought  always  —  a 
thought  that  sticks.  It  is  this  characteristic 
that  has  made  him  one  of  the  best  after-dinner 
speakers  of  his  time,  and  a  conversationalist  who 
never  plays  verbal  battledoor  and  shuttlecock, 
but  has  always  something  to  say,  and  says  it  well. 
His  fame  as  an  after-dinner  speaker  has  gone  to 
the  ends  of  all  towns  where  he  has  been  heard. 

At  Mr.  Mabie's  home  you  drop  into  one  of 
the  easy-chairs  of  the  library,  and,  the  day  being 
chilly,  Mrs.  Mabie,  who  has  appeared,  touches 
a  match  to  the  heap  of  logs  with  kindling-wood 
and  paper  that  need  no  coaxing  to  rouse  them 
into  flame.  A  roar  and  the  fire  darts  up  be 
tween  the  dull  red  bricks.  Little  shoots  of 
warmth  steal  out,  and  the  blaze  is  grateful. 
You  recall — you  cannot  help  it — these  words 
from  the  first  of  the  essays  in  "  My  Study  Fire"  : 
"  Rosalind  always  lights  the  fire,  and  one  of  the 
pleasant  impressions  of  the  annual  ceremonial  is 
the  glow  of  the  first  blaze  upon  her  fair  face 
and  waving  hair." 

[79] 


American  Authors  0  ^fheir  Homes 

"  This  is  not  the  original  l  My  Study  Fire,' " 
says  Mr.  Mabie,  in  answer  to  a  question, 
"  though  it  has  been  pictured  with  that  title. 
The  original  <•  Study  Fire '  was  in  Greenwich, 
Conn.,  where  I  lived  some  years  ago. 

"  Those  essays,  by  the  way,"  he  went  on, 
"were  nearly  all  first  printed  in  The  Outlook. 
The  most  of  my  essays  have  been,  you  know. 
But  that  was  not  my  first  book.  I  had  been  be 
tween  covers  before,  though  I  suppose  that  is 
not  generally  known.  It  seems  to  be  the  popu 
lar  idea  that  I  started  with  c  My  Study  Fire.' 
4  Norse  Stories,'  however,  came  several  years 
before — a  series  of  tales  from  Northern  mythol 
ogy,  written  for  children.  It  sells,  perhaps, 
better  than  ever  of  recent  years. 

He  placed  the  little  book — a  new  edition  of 
it — in  my  hand.  So  this  was  Hamilton  Wright 
Mabie's  first  venture  into  the  realm  of  book- 
dom,  an  essay  of  printed  pages,  wherein  gods 
and  giants  clashed  and  contended  !  How  differ 
ent  these  pages  of  Norse  myths,  of  doughty 
deeds,  from  the  calm  philosophy  of  Mabie  of 
recent  years,  brimful  of  the  message  of  culture 
for  the  lowest  as  well  as  for  the  highest. 

Some  men  are  long  in  finding  their  proper 
niche  in  the  world,  and  some  discover  their  mis- 
[80] 


Hamilton  Wright  Mabie 

sion  early.  For  a  dozen  years  and  more  Mr. 
Mabie  has  been  spreading  his  gospel  of  literature 
and  education.  How  he  came  into  his  realm  is 
best  told  in  his  own  words: 

"  I  started  off,"  he  said — and  the  study  fire 
(which  one  can  think  of  only  as  the  embodi 
ment  of  the  thoughts  of  Mr.  Mabie,  the  very 
phrase  is  wound  so  closely  about  him)  danced 
up  more  brightly — "  as  a  lawyer,  like  many  an 
other  young  man.  I  chose  law  because  I  did 
not  know  what  else  to  choose.  But  a  few 
months  at  it  showed  me  that  I  was  not  meant 
for  an  attorney.  Just  then  it  happened  that  I 
had  a  chance  to  go  on  The  Christian  Union^ 
now  The  Outlook.  I  have  been  there  ever 
since." 

"  And  how — "  I  began.  A  smile  stole 
around  the  corners  of  Mr.  Mabie's  mouth.  It 
is  as  useless  to  attempt  to  describe  that  whole- 
souled  smile  that  irradiates  continually  with  uni 
versal  kindness  as  it  is  to  try  to  picture  the 
charm  of  an  hour  with  him.  His  words — 
should  they  be  set  down  literally  in  cold  type — 
would  not  make  a  tithe  of  the  impression  that 
they  do  when  spoken.  This  charm  he  has  is 
elusive  and  intangible.  It  is  like  a  view  of 
meadow  upland  on  a  day  that  is  touched  with 
[81] 


American  Authors   &  T'keir  Homes 

an  impalpable  mist.  The  eye  takes  in  all  its 
sensuous  charm,  but  a  photograph,  while  it  gives 
the  form  and  outlines,  fails  to  catch  the  spirit 
and  color. 

It  is  the  great  forces  of  the  day  that  appeal  to 
Mr.  Mabie,  the  onward  movements  that  are 
pushing  this  country  rapidly  to  the  fore,  and, 
though  he  writes  from  a  secluded,  plainly  fur 
nished  study  up  near  his  dwelling's  eaves,  he  is 
no  recluse,  but  a  man  keenly  alive  to  events 
and  the  currents  of  the  nation's  life.  Though 
books  crowd  his  library,  though  the  compressed 
thought  of  the  world  through  the  centuries  is  at 
his  hand,  he  spends  only  a  fraction  of  each  day, 
week,  and  month  with  them,  seeking  his 
thoughts  and  inspirations  from  the  lives  of  men 
and  women,  the  lives  of  those,  in  the  main,  who 
are  struggling  for  a  fuller  existence. 

"  Has  it  ever  struck  you,"  he  says,  leaning 
back  in  his  chair,  "  that  the  great  mass  of  the 
literary  men  of  America  have  been  more  than 
mere  students,  that  they  have  been  in  touch 
with  actual  American  life  ? "  Whether  or  no 
this  be  true,  it  is  certain  that  this  individual 
American  literary  man  is  and  has  been  in  close 
touch  with  the  life  of  his  times.  A  boundless 
optimism  is  apparent  in  every  word  he  utters. 
[82] 


Hamilton  Wright  Mabie 

He  sees  the  elevation  of  America  through  the 
years  to  a  higher  and  yet  higher  plane,  and  this 
will  come  about,  he  sturdily  declares,  through 
the  spread  of  culture. 

"  I  have  been  surprised,"  he  says,  there  being 
now  no  smile  on  his  lips,  but  a  magnetic  ear 
nestness  that  carries  weight  with  it,  u  at  the 
spread  of  culture  in  America.  We  of  the  East 
have  the  impression  that  culture  is  largely  con 
fined  to  the  East,  that  it  has  made  little  headway 
elsewhere.  Never  was  there  a  greater  error. 
The  men  and  women,  especially  the  younger 
generation,  of  the  South  and  West  have  a  large 
amount  of  culture,  and  they  are  continually  add 
ing  to  it.  In  the  towns  and  villages  of  these 
regions  the  interest  taken  in  literature  and  edu 
cation  is  astonishing.  The  people  study  for 
study's  own  .sake.  They  keep  abreast  of  the 
intellectual  times,  and  give  their  minds  to  the 
classics  of  literature  as  well. 

"  All  this  is  immensely  encouraging.  It 
speaks  well  for  the  future  of  the  country,  and 
is  an  inspiration  in  itself.  It  is  a  joy  for  me  to 
travel  over  the  West  and  South,  as  I  have  had 
occasion  to  do  a  number  of  times  these  past  few 
years,  and  to  address  schools,  academies,  and 
colleges.  Everywhere  I  find  it  the  same  and 
[83] 


American  Authors   &  rfheir  Homes 

everywhere  the  closest  attention.  There  is  the 
keenest  enthusiasm  to  know ;  the  greatest  am 
bition  is  seen,  and  the  tastes  of  the  people  are 
being  formed  on  a  firm  foundation. 

"  Why,  I  know  one  little  Western  city  where 
an  old  minister  has  been  conducting  a  class  in 
Plato  for  twenty  years,  and  the  interest  has 
never  once  flagged.  Now,  people  cannot  listen 
to  Plato  for  years  without  having  culture,  come 
to  them  in  some  small  measure  at  the  very 
least.  And  this  is  only  an  instance  of  the  en 
thusiasm  of  the  West  and  South.  People  who 
can  do  no  better  are  teaching  themselves  — 
crudely,  perhaps,  but  yet  they  learn.  They  are 
learning  at  many  a  sacrifice  and  the  loss  of 
many  a  personal  comfort.  Whole  families  are 
concerned  in  these  movements,  and  the  activity 
of  the  culture  that  is  widely  spreading  is  un 
bounded." 

It  was  not  for  Mr.  Mabie  to  say,  but  it  can 
be  told  here  by  another,  how  much  he  himself 
in  his  addresses  and  lectures  has  stimulated  this 
activity.  One  thing  you  note  about  this  man 
is  that,  interesting  as  he  is  as  a  writer,  an  even 
greater  charm  attaches  itself  to  his  thoughts 
when  you  hear  them  direct  from  his  lips.  As 
regards  his  personality,  for  the  benefit  of  people 
[84] 


Hamilton  Wright  Mabie 

that  have  never  seen  him,  it  is  worth  telling 
that  the  familiar  picture  of  him,  wherein  he  is 
shown  in  an  easy-chair,  reading,  is  a  striking  like 
ness.  The  posture  is  his  very  own,  and  for  once 
photography  has  made  a  complete  success  with 
the  subject. 

There  is  a  rather  interesting  little  anecdote 
about  this  portrait.  Mr.  Mabie  was  sitting  for 
a  picture,  and  the  several  poses  that  had  been 
"  snapped  "  did  not  suit  the  operator,  who  there 
upon  chanced  to  go  out  of  the  room.  While  he 
was  away,  Mr.  Mabie  picked  up  a  book,  and  in 
the  same  chair  in  which  he  had  been  posed  with 
ill-success  started  to  read.  He  became  so  ab 
sorbed  that  he  did  not  notice  the  photographer's 
return.  The  pose  was  there,  however,  and  bet 
ter  than  it  could  ever  have  been  planned,  and 
with  rapid  movements  the  photographer  made 
ready.  "  Don't  move — not  a  muscle,"  was  all 
he  said  at  the  final  moment.  It  is  doubtful  if 
Mr.  Mabie  fully  understood  him.  At  all  events, 
he  remained  motionless,  and  the  picture  is  the 
result. 

With  a  charming  home — in  which  it  must 
not  be  forgotten,  en  passant,  there  stand  several 
admirable  pieces  of  antique  furniture — an  ideal 
household,  success  in  his  chosen  branch  of  liter- 
[85] 


American  Authors   &  rfheir  Homes 

ature  reached,  and  his  temperament  of  optimism 
that  sees  only  good  coming  from  out  the  stress 
and  storm  of  America,  Hamilton  Wright  Mabie 
is  one  of  the  happiest  of  men.  He  shows  this 
each  moment  in  his  face.  In  tastes,  once  his 
task  for  the  day  is  finished — which  it  always  is 
by  luncheon  time — he  is  a  normally  constituted 
man,  with  a  love  for  out-of-door  sports.  He 
rides  the  bicycle  and  plays  golf,  and  both  pas 
times  he  enters  into  with  the  pleasure  he  shows 
in  everything  he  undertakes. 

No  finer  testimony  to  the  esteem  in  which  he 
is  held  in  his  own  circle  could  be  desired  than 
the  dinner  given  to  him  at  the  University  Club 
early  in  the  spring  of  1901.  No  society,  club, 
or  organization  of  any  kind  started  the  project. 
Merely  a  few  of  his  most  intimate  friends  sent 
out  notices  of  what  they  had  undertaken  to  do, 
with  an  invitation  to  be  present.  The  responses 
were  immediate  and  general.  It  was,  indeed, 
such  a  gathering  as  literary  and  professional 
New  York  had  not  often  seen.  Distinction  of 
some  kind — literary,  legal,  medical,  ministerial, 
financial,  commercial,  journalistic — sat  in  almost 
every  chair.  Dr.  van  Dyke  presided.  Among 
those  who  spoke  were  Mark  Twain,  E.  C.  Sted- 
man,  Brander  Matthews,  F.  Hopkinson  Smith, 
[86] 


Hamilton  Upright  Mabie 

and  Dr.  James  H.  Canfield  —  speeches  that 
charmed  and  held  captive  a  large  gathering. 
After  the  third  speech  Dr.  van  Dyke  was 
moved  to  rise  and  say,  with  a  wearied  air, 
"  Well,  gentlemen,  after  what  you  have  been 
listening  to,  I  wonder  how  I  ever  got  this  job." 


[87] 


Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 
In  Mount  Vernon  Street^  Boston 


BY  MR.  ALDRICH 
Born  in  f8j6t  in  PortimoutA,   N.  H. 

The  Ballad  of  Babie  Bell,  and  Other  Poems.      1856. 

The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.      1869. 

Marjorie  Daw,  and  Other   People.      1873. 

Prudence  Palfrey.      1874. 

The  Queen  of  Sheba.      1877. 

The  Stillwater  Tragedy.      1880. 

Poems.     Complete  Edition.      1882. 

From  Ponkapog  to  Pesth.      1883. 

Mercedes,  and  Later  Lyrics.      1883. 

Wyndham  Towers.      [Poem.]      1890. 

The  Sisters'  Tragedy,  with  Other  Poems.      1891. 

An  Old  Town  by  the  Sea.      1893. 

Unguarded  Gates,  and  Other  Poems.      1895. 


VI 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 
In  Mount  Vernon  Street ,  Boston 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH  is 
the  one  poet  of  pre-eminent  standing 
now  left  to  Boston,  once  so  rich  in 
its  literary  possessions.  Gone  are  Longfellow 
and  Holmes,  gone  is  Lowell — long  since  gone. 
Mr.  Aldrich  remains  as  a  connecting  link  be 
tween  a  generation  of  accomplishment  and  a 
generation  of  hope.  His  productiveness  is  now 
fitful  and  far  too  occasional  for  those  who  take 
pride  in  him  as  a  man  of  letters  and  a  fellow- 
citizen,  but  it  is  good  to  know  that  he  is  still  an 
active  figure  in  the  world.  Perhaps  we  may  ex 
pect  that  almost  any  day  there  may  come  from 
his  pen  one  of  those  graceful  and  beautifully 
polished  poems  that  have  made  him  famous  in 
many  a  land  and  beloved  in  many  a  heart. 

He  wears  his  sixty-odd  years  with  surprising 
elasticity.  His  short  but  stalwart  frame  is  full 
of  vigor,  his  fine  face  is  as  fresh  as  that  of  many 
a  man  a  dozen  years  his  junior,  and  his  whole 
bearing  instinct  with  bodily  strength  and  mental 
activity.  To  say  that  he  is  a  cultured  gentle- 
[91] 


American  Authors  &  rfheir  Homes 

man  and  a  thorough  man  of  the  world,  in  the 
best  sense,  is  merely  to  repeat  what  all  who 
have  met  him  know  without  the  telling.  To 
see  him  in  his  beautiful  home — either  the  home 
in  Mount  Vernon  Street,  Boston,  or  his  sum 
mer  dwelling-place  at  Ponkapog — a  courteous 
and  entertaining  host,  is  to  learn  anew  the  les 
son  that  men  of  note  are  easy  of  approach, 
quick  of  sympathy,  sincere  and  unpretentious. 

From  the  very  crest  of  Beacon  Hill,  where 
stands  the  almost  painfully  new  marble  of  the 
straggling  addition  to  the  Bulfinch  State  House, 
there  slopes  swiftly  to  the  water's  edge  a  street 
whose  counterpart  is  not  to  be  found  in  America. 
It  is  lined  with  the  noblest  houses  of  Boston, 
the  most  of  them  at  least  half  a  century  old. 
They  were  built  by  the  rich  and  courtly  gentle 
men  of  that  time,  and  many  are  still  occupied 
by  descendants  of  those  merchant  princes  and 
statesmen  who  made  Mount  Vernon  Street  a 
place  of  extraordinary  vogue  and  exclusiveness  ; 
but  the  butterflies  of  fashion  have  now  taken 
wing  to  other  regions.  On  the  right  as  you 
descend  is  a  group  of  eight  or  ten  tall  bow- 
fronted  mansions  set  considerably  back  from  the 
sidewalk,  each  with  its  grass  plot  and  ornate 
iron  fence.  This  semi-retirement  gives  them 
[92] 


Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 

an  indescribable  air  of  dignity  and  richness,  and 
strangers  always  gaze  upon  them  with  admira 
tion. 

Mr.  Aldrich's  house,  No.  59,  is  the  second 
of  this  group.  It  is  particularly  noticeable  by 
reason  of  its  doorway  of  white  marble  framework 
and  Grecian  pillars  set  into  the  brick,  a  curious 
but  striking  arrangement.  From  the  steps  one 
can  see  the  blue  waters  of  the  Charles,  that  om 
nipresent  river  in  and  around  Boston,  and  the 
long  curve  of  Back  Bay  houses,  whose  rear  view 
is  that  of  the  water.  A  son  of  George  Bancroft, 
the  historian,  is  Mr.  Aldrich's  next-door  neigh 
bor,  and  beyond  him  recently  has  lived  ex-Gov 
ernor  Claflin.  On  the  other  side  of  the  street 
and  not  quite  so  far  down  is  the  house  of  the 
Hon.  Robert  Treat  Paine.  It  will  be  seen, 
therefore,  that  the  neighborhood  still  has  dis 
tinction,  even  if  the  blaze  of  fashion  has  been 
extinguished. 

The  interior  of  this  fine  old  mansion  is  en 
tirely  in  keeping  with  its  outside  nobility.  If 
one  enters  on  such  an  errand  as  that  which  called 
the  writer  of  this  chronicle  to  it,  he  gets  a  mo 
ment's  impression  of  a  richly  furnished  drawing- 
room,  where  a  fire  of  logs  is  cheerfully  blazing 
and  a  gray  African  parrot  is  enjoying  a  place 
[93] 


American  Authors   &  Their  Homes 

of  honor,  a  large  hall,  a  great  circular  stairway 
sweeping  its  broad  spiral  to  the  very  top  of  the 
house  j  vistas  of  beautiful  rooms  at  each  landing, 
and  at  last,  on  the  fourth  floor,  the  "  den  "  of 
the  poet,  the  true  abiding-place  of  an  author  at 
home. 

This  room  is  large,  but  not  too  much  so  to 
be  inviting  and  comfortable,  and  it  has  its  fire 
place,  like  all  the  others.  From  its  bow-windows 
a  splendid  panorama  of  the  southwestern  part 
of  Boston,  dominated  by  the  campanile  of  the 
Providence  Station,  greets  the  eye.  At  night 
myriad  lights  give  the  view  still  greater  beauty. 
From  the  roof  of  the  house,  the  islands  of  the 
harbor  can  be  seen,  and  even  the  sea  beyond, 
for  at  this  point  one  finds  himself  as  high  as  the 
dome  of  the  Capitol. 

The  noticeable  feature  of  this  snuggery  is  its 
antique  furniture — escritoires,  chairs,  and  tables 
that  would  make  a  collector  green  with  envy. 
Nothing  here,  with  the  exception  of  two  im 
mense  modern,  velvet-cushioned  rockers  and  a 
large  centre  desk,  is  of  later  date  than  1812. 
This  furniture  forms  part  of  the  valuable  heri 
tage  its  owner  derived  from  his  grandfather,  who 
lived  in  Portsmouth — the  veritable  grandfather 
of  the  hero  of  that  delightful  classic,  "The 
[94] 


Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 

Story  of  a  Bad  Boy,"  which  (and  the  reader 
may  take  "  Tom  Bailey's  "  word  for  it)  is  auto 
biographic  and  true  in  its  essential  elements. 

The  centre  desk  was  once  owned  by  Charles 
Sumner,  and  was  used  by  him  for  many  years. 
In  various  odd  corners  are  half  a  hundred  things 
picked  up  all  over  the  world,  such  as  Buddhist 
deities,  Arabian  gems,  and  a  very  valuable  piece 
of  Moorish  tiling  from  the  walls  of  the  Alhambra. 
There  are  book-shelves  in  plenty,  of  course,  and 
a  semi-literary  collection  of  pipes  on  a  curious 
table  at  one  of  the  windows.  Good  pictures 
hang  on  the  red-toned  walls,  although  to  the 
bookman  the  most  interesting  object  of  that  sort 
is  an  old  print  of  Dr.  Johnson,  framed  with  an 
autograph  letter  of  that  worthy. 

Seated  here,  in  one  of  the  big  rockers,  Mr. 
Aldrich  enters  upon  the  role  of  entertainer  with 
an  easy  charm  that  delights  the  younger  man. 
He  sketches  his  own  life  with  vivid  touches, 
telling  how  he  found  the  beginning  of  his  career. 
He  talks  of  foreign  lands  most  entertainingly  (a 
book  of  travel  Mr.  Aldrich  has  written  bears  the 
odd  title  "  From  Ponkapog  to  Pesth  "),  and  of  his 
own  with  a  keen  appreciation  of  the  best  things 
that  pertain  to  it.  Being  led  to  the  subject,  he 
describes  the  amusing  pitfalls  that  are  dug  for 
[95] 


American  Authors  &  ^fheir  Homes 

unsuspecting  authors  by  the  professional  and  mer 
cantile  hunters  of  autographs. 

Some  of  the  expedients  of  these  gentlemen 
are  almost  incredible.  On  one  occasion  he  re 
ceived  a  pathetic  letter  in  a  feminine  hand,  an 
nouncing  the  death  of  a  little  daughter,  and  asking 
the  poet  if  he  would  not  send,  in  his  own  hand 
writing,  a  verse  or  two  from  "  Babie  Bell "  to 
assuage  the  grief  of  that  household.  His  sym 
pathies  were  touched  and  he  wrote  out  the  whole 
poem  and  sent  it  on  its  comforting  mission.  A 
few  weeks  later  he  saw  the  identical  thing  in  a 
well-known  autograph  dealer's  store  with  a  good 
round  price  attached  thereto.  This  is  only  one 
of  many  tricks  that  now  are  mostly  attempted 
in  vain.  Their  intended  victim  has  grown  ex 
pert  in  detecting  them  at  first  sight. 

Mr.  Aldrich's  amusing  dissertation  on  the 
autograph  fiend  and  his  practices  led  naturally  to 
an  exhibition  of  the  most  striking  collection  of 
original  manuscripts  in  this  country.  During 
the  ten  years  of  his  editorial  guidance  of  The 
Atlantic  Monthly,  he  had  the  rare  foresight  to  pre 
serve  the  contributions  of  all  the  famous  writers 
for  the  magazine.  There  were  giants  in  those 
days.  In  magnificently  bound  volumes  are 
preserved  manuscripts  of  Longfellow,  Lowell, 
[96] 


Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 

Holmes,  and  the  whole  coterie  of  poets  and  es 
sayists  of  whom  New  England  was  proud. 

These  manuscripts  are  "  inlaid,"  as  it  is  called, 
a  process  so  delicate  and  cunning  that  the  very 
paper  of  the  authors  seems  a  part  of  the  larger 
page,  permitting  also  the  reverse  side  —  they  did 
not  always  obey  the  rule  of  "  one  side  of  sheet 
only,"  the  great  ones  of  that  day — to  be  read 
with  perfect  ease.  Included  are  numerous  man 
uscripts  of  English  writers  of  renown.  These 
books  are  of  almost  priceless  value  now.  What 
they  will  be  worth  in  fifty  years  it  would  be  im 
possible  to  conjecture.  To  the  commercially 
inclined  they  might  become  a  more  profitable 
heirloom  than  a  house  on  Beacon  Street,  "  river 
view "  included,  or  a  block  of  Calumet  & 
Hecla,  which  is  to-day  the  staff  and  support  of 
more  than  one  family  in  Boston  with  close  liter 
ary  associations. 

The  poet  has  his  moods  in  writing;  he  con 
fesses  it  without  reserve.  He  must  be  surrounded 
by  the  things  he  has  grown  to  know  and  cherish, 
or  the  genius  of  inspiration  may  not  flutter  down 
upon  his  paper.  "  I  could  not  create  a  large 
work  in  a  small  room,"  he  says,  and  he  tells  of 
attempts  to  set  up  his  desk  in  other  parts  of  the 
house,  all  to  no  purpose,  until  the  present  spacious 
[97] 


American  Authors  &  T'heir  Homes 

and  beautiful  study  was  evolved.  And  if  there 
is  a  tenth  muse  whose  special  care  is  Boston,  as 
all  good  dwellers  of  the  Hub  must  believe,  or 
depart  into  the  outer  darkness,  she  could  not  fail 
to  delight  in  such  a  place. 


[98] 


W^illiam   Dean   Howells 
In  Central  Park  South,  New  York 


BY  MR.   HOWELLS 
Born  in  fSj?,  in  Martin's  Ferry,  0. 

Venetian  Life.      1 866. 

Italian  Journeys.      1867. 

Their  Wedding  Journey.      1871. 

A  Chance  Acquaintance.      1874. 

The  Lady  of  the  Aroostoolc.      1879. 

The  Undiscovered  Country.      1880. 

A  Modern  Instance.      1882. 

The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham.      1885. 

Poems.      1885. 

April  Hopes.      1887. 

A  Hazard  of  New  Fortunes.      1890. 

The  Coast  of  Bohemia.      1893. 

A  Traveller  from  Altruria.      1894. 

My  Literary  Passions.      1895. 

The  Landlord  of  Lion's  Head.      1897. 

Their  Silver  Wedding  Journey.      1899. 

Literary  Friends  and  Acquaintances.      1901. 


Mr.  Howells  at  his  Office  Desk. 


VII 

W^illiam   Dean   Ho  wells 
In  Central  Park  South,  New  York 

THE  eyes  of  William  Dean  Howells,  as 
one  views  them  in  a  clear  light,  are 
large  and  blue  with  silvery  reflections. 
In  their  clear  pupils  is  something  infinite  and 
vague  as  the  tranquil  sea.  He  lowers  his  head 
that  he  may  the  better  listen  to  the  voice  of 
reverie,  and  his  vast  forehead  appears  in  the 
majestic  simplicity  of  its  design.  His  face, 
which  when  in  repose  is  expressive  of  serenity, 
certitude,  and  invincible  faith,  reproduces  all  the 
shades  of  his  thoughts  in  their  sadness  or  gayety. 
He  is  observation  itself.  Those  who  have  really 
interviewed  him  know  that  he  has  penetrated 
them  more  than  they  him. 

Men  of  letters,  and  artists,  even  those  whom 
all  opinions  divide,  are  united  in  affection  for  his 
personality.  When  one  reads  in  the  margin  of 
a  magnificent  etching  by  Rajon,  which  is  in  his 
drawing-room  at  48  West  Fifty-ninth  Street, 
the  words  "  To  my  dear  Howells,"  one  feels 
that  they  were  not  written  as  a  conventional 
formula.  The  inscription  is  in  the  handwriting 
[101] 


American  Authors  &  ^heir  Homes 

of  L.  Alma-Tadema,  artist  of  the  painting  etched 
by  Raj  on. 

Other  pictures  in  the  drawing-room  are  an 
old  painting  of  a  Venetian  lady,  dressed  in 
silks  and  paniers,  like  a  personage  of  Wat- 
teau,  wearing  a  mask  and  posed  in  the  most 
graceful  figure  of  a  minuet  imaginable  ;  an  ex 
cellent  example  of  Fortuny's  art  in  the  figure 
of  a  guitar-player  in  brilliant  costume,  and  an 
ancient  Venetian  engraving  of  a  series  of  plates 
descriptive  of  Italian  life  in  the  sixteenth  cen 
tury. 

The  walls  of  the  library  are  lined  with  books, 
modern  and  collected  without  bibliomania. 
Above  the  shelves  are  two  wide  paintings  of  an 
gels,  the  effect  of  which  is  enchanting.  They 
were  painted  by  a  pupil  of  Veronese.  The 
colors,  forms,  facial  expression,  and  restfulness 
exhaled  from  the  composition,  made  by  an  in 
spired  artist  in  an  age  of  naive  religion,  are  im 
pressive.  The  long  library  table,  made  after  a 
design  by  Mrs.  Howells,  is  graceful  and  deli 
cately  ornamented  with  severely  artistic  carv 
ings.  It  is  unencumbered  with  books  or  pa 
pers.  The  inkstand  reproduces  in  bronze  the 
wild  boar  of  the  great  fountain  at  Florence. 

The  window  opens  on  Central  Park,  the 
[102] 


William  Dean  Hoiuells 

green  trees,  the  flowery  plains,  and  a  vast,  im 
mense  extent  of  sky,  as  the  author  might  have 
wished  to  cut  in  azure  for  his  personal  use.  In 
the  spring,  the  forest  of  lilacs — white,  blue,  and 
pink — appears  as  a  happy  and  triumphant  festi 
val.  It  vanishes  only  to  make  place  for  flowers 
of  gold  and  snow. 

"  If  Aristides  Homos,  your  Altrurian  travel 
ler,  were  imprisoned  here,"  a  young  man  said  to 
Mr.  Howells,  "  perhaps  he  would  not  adversely 
criticise  American  architecture."  Mr.  Howells 
laughed  in  good-humor,  and  replied  :  "  He  says 
that  gracious  structures  in  our  great  cities  do 
not  redeem,  but  are  lost  and  annulled  in  their 
environment.  Will  you  have  an  evidence  of 
this  ?  "  and  then  Mr.  Howells  bent  his  body  out 
of  the  window,  and  pointed  with  his  right  hand 
to  a  mixed  -landscape. 

"  "There  is  the  handsomest  of  clubhouses," 
said  he.  "  It  is  pure  Florentine  Renaissance. 
The  new  brick  building  adjoining  it  is — what  ? 
Then  there  is  a  two-story  liquor  store,  then  a 
plain  brick  building,  then  this  monstrosity,  a  cliff 
of  brick  and  sandstone,  so  many  stories  higher 
than  its  neighbor." 

"  Is  not  the  effect  picturesque  ?  "  he  was 
asked.  "  It  is  picturesque,"  Mr.  Howells  re- 
[103] 


American  Authors  &  ^heir  Homes 

plied,  as  he  sat  on  a  pretty  ottoman,  "  but  it  is 
not  beautiful.  A  savage  is  picturesque." 

The  library-room  is  not  the  author's  work 
shop.  His  workshop  is  in  the  rear  of  the 
apartment — a  little  room  severe  as  an  ascetic's 
cell,  where  there  is  a  typewriter.  Mr.  Howells 
writes  with  the  machine  easily  since  the  time 
when  an  injury  to  his  wrist  made  it  difficult  for 
him  to  write  with  a  pen.  He  works  in  the 
morning,  and  takes  his  constitutional  in  the 
park  in  the  afternoon. 

Have  you  visions  of  analytical  essays,  of  brill 
iantly  truthful  stories  written  with  the  facility 
that  a  fluent  talker  has  in  conversation  ?  Mr. 
Howells  hesitates  between  the  dramatic  and  the 
historical  form  in  his  plan  of  every  story.  How 
natural,  how  life-like  is  the  dramatic  !  How 
satisfying  is  the  historical  !  Like  Penelope  he 
undoes  in  the  evening  the  tapestry  carefully 
woven  in  the  day.  If  one  asks  of  him  the 
form  that  he  prefers,  he  says  :  "  One  must  sac 
rifice  in  dramatic  writing  the  last  degree  of  in 
timacy.  The  author  may  say  to  the  reader 
things  which  no  other  person  may  say.  This 
is  the  advantage  of  the  historical  form." 

"  I  saw  you  at  the  performance  at  the  Berke 
ley  Lyceum  of  Maeterlinck's  4  L'Intruse.'  I 
[  104] 


William  Dean  Howells 

have  always  wished  to  ask  your  opinion  of  the 
play,"  said  the  young  man.  "  Maeterlinck  is 
one  of  our  deities,"  Mr.  Howells  replied.  "  Was 
it  not  grand  ?  How  the  text  lifted  the  players, 
who  were  amateurs,  to  the  grade  of  great  players  !" 

"  I  thought '  L'Intruse'  was  as  good  as  the  deep 
ly  moving  Greek  chorus  in  the  play  by  which  it 
was  preceded,"  the  young  man  observed,  timidly. 
"  It  was  better,"  Mr.  Howells  said,  with  enthusi 
asm.  "  4  L'Intruse '  is  Greek  and  modern.  It 
is  Shakespeare.  Do  you  remember  the  thrill  of 
the  first  scene  in  c  Hamlet'  ?  " 

"  But  Maeterlinck's  plays  are  literary,"  the 
young  man  said,  "  and  the  great  dramatic  critics 
insist  that  the  drama  should  be  dramatic  first  and 
literary  afterward."  "  There  is  no  difference 
between  the  drama  and  literature,"  Mr.  Howells 
replied.  "  In  the  Puritanical  times  writers  avoided 
the  stage,  but  this  was  a  temporary  separation. 
The  drama  must  be  literary  to  be  dramatic. 
Observe  the  effect  of  Herne's  c  Shore  Acres,'  a 
magnificent  play,  wherein  the  literature  sup 
presses  the  mechanical,  the  rude,  and  the  com 
monplace." 

u  Have  you  a  theory  of  literary  criticism  ?  " 
the  young  man  asked.  "  I  think  that  the  art  of 
criticism  is  to  discover  the  truth  about  a  book, 
[105] 


American  Authors   &  ^heir  Homes 

and  tell  it,"  Mr.  Howells  replied,  with  an  inter 
rogative  look. 

"  Yes,  but  there  are  all  kinds  of  truths,"  the 
young  man  insisted.  "  And  an  endless  amount 
of  different  moods.  The  personal  equation  has 
a  large  part  in  the  practice  of  criticism.  But 
there  are  general  principles ;  there  is  progress," 
Mr.  Howells  continued.  "  When  I  wrote  essays 
on  fiction  and  was  adversely  criticised  for  my 
opinion  of  Thackeray,  I  had  simply  declared  that 
Thackeray  was  the  foremost  man  of  his  time. 
I  greatly  admired  him.  But  Tolstoi  and  Balzac 
have  made  the  progress  of  the  novel  only  too 
rapid  for  the  Anglo-Saxons.  The  realistic  novel 
is  the  novel  of  the  present  and  of  the  future." 

"  You  know  that  there  is  a  reactionary  school 
of  literature  in  France,"  the  young  man  said,  with 
much  assurance. 

"I  do  not  know  its  work,"  Mr.  Howells 
replied,  placidly.  "  I  think  there  may  not  be  a 
reaction,  but  a  change  of  subjects.  Instead  of 
describing  the  coarser,  the  new  novelist  will 
describe  some  of  the  finer,  phases  of  life." 

"  How  can  they  ?  The  finer  phases  are  not  as 
easily  realized.  What  novelist  will  write  realis 
tic  novels  of  maidens  ?  "  he  was  asked.  "  Those 
who  shall  be  as  pure  as  they,"  Mr.  Howells 
[106] 


William  Dean  Howells 

replied.  "  There  cannot  be  a  revolution  in  the  art 
of  fiction  which  may  be  a  change  in  the  nature 
of  the  novel  as  a  faithful  representation  of  our 
experiences  of  life." 

"  Was  your  faculty  of  observation  innate  or 
acquired  ?  "  asked  the  young  man,  in  a  catechisti- 
cal  tone,  which  surprised  even  him.  "  I  suppose 
I  have  developed  it,"  Mr.  Howells  replied.  "  But 
most  of  my  observations  have  been  unconscious  ; 
I  verify  them  wherever  it  is  possible.  I  never 
write  anything  without  asking  myself,  '  Is  it 
true  ? '  " 

Mr.  Howells  replied  so  affably  that  his  ques 
tioner  persisted  unrelentingly.  "  I  would  give 
the  palm  to  Hawthorne  among  all  the  prose 
writers,"  he  said  in  one  of  his  replies.  "  Haw 
thorne  wrote  pure  romance.  This  is  perfectly 
legitimate  in  fiction,  and  not  to  be  confounded 
with  the  mixture  known  as  the  romantic  novel. 
I  sometimes  think  c  Evangeline  '  could  be  proved 
the  great  poem  of  the  century.  It  is  the  supreme 
tragedy  of  pathos.  I  have  been  passionately 
fond  of  Longfellow,  but  my  first  love  was  Heine. 
I  read  Heine  at  seventeen,  in  the  village  where 
my  father  had  his  printing  office.  A  Ger 
man  bookbinder,  who  had  gone  into  exile  af 
ter  the  Revolution  of  1848,  had  the  works  of 
[107] 


American  Authors   &  tfheir  Homes 

the  poet,  and  I  learned  German  with  him  in  my 
ardor  to  read  them.  I  shall  never  lose  the  im 
pression  which  they  made  on  me.  It  was  Heine 
who  freed  my  hand  in  writing." 

"  I  prefer  the  4  Intermezzo  '  rather  than  '  Ro 
meo  and  Juliet,'  "  the  young  man  said,  with  an 
apologetic  air,  "  because  Heine's  work  is  a  pure 
poem  without  a  story."  "  Heine,"  Mr.  Howells 
said,  "  never  had  to  give  a  reason  for  his  lyrical 
emotion.  He  had  the  wisdom  never  to  render 
an  account." 

"  Could  you  not  be  persuaded  to  become  a 
partisan  of  the  theory  of  art  for  art's  sake  ?  "  the 
young  man  asked.  "  No,"  Mr.  Howells  an 
swered,  very  decidedly.  "  The  theory  is  excus 
able  only  on  the  plea  of  necessary  protest  against 
too  materialistic  surroundings." 

To  a  question  about  the  works  of  Poe,  Mr. 
Howells  replied  that  they  had  not  impressed  him 
and  that  he  could  not  understand  why  the  French 
were  enthusiastic  about  them.  Of  Walt  Whit 
man,  he  said  :  "  He  was  like  Columbus.  He  dis 
covered  an  island,  instead  of  the  continent.  He 
knew  the  slavery  of  the  poetic  form,  but  he  made 
his  work  formless.  Form  is  indispensable  to 
poetry.  I  think  it  should  not  be  everything,  but 
the  true  art  is  in  a  middle  ground.  At  a  sub- 
[108] 


William  Dean  Howe/Is 

lime  height  in  his  work  Whitman  had  form. 
Then  he  ceased  to  be  nebular  and  became  stel 
lar." 

"  Are  you  a  believer  in  the  mind  as  a  meta 
physical  entity  ?  "  the  young  man  asked. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  "  but  I  find  great  consola 
tion  in  the  thought  that  a  third  principle  besides 
mind  and  body  makes  us  think.  Do  you  re 
member  Cassio,  the  most  charming  character  in 
literature,  and  the  part  of  himself  which  he  lost 
in  the  second  act  of  l  Othello '  ?  Now  what 
was  it  ?  " 

"  People  say  that  you  are  a  Socialist."  "  I 
should  not  care  to  wear  a  label,"  Mr.  Howells 
replied.  "  I  do  not  study  the  question — the 
question  studies  me.  In  great  cities  one  does 
not  easily  avoid  it.  But  socialism  is  not  immi 
nent.  If  the  people  wanted  it  they  would  have 
it,  and  without  any  revolution.  Have  you  no 
ticed  that  in  our  civilization,  the  artist  who  is 
the  only  person  in  -the  right  is  apparently  the 
only  person  in  the  wrong  ?  " 


[109] 


Paul  Leicester   Ford 

In  East  Seventy-seventh  Street,  New  Torky 
and  in  Brooklyn 


BY    MR.   FORD 

Born  in  l8t>5,  in  Brooklyn 

The  Writings  of  Jefferson  [Editor  of]. 

Hon.  Peter  Stirling.      1894. 

The  True  George  Washington.      1896. 

The  Story  of  an  Untold  Love.     1897. 

The  Great  K.  and  A.  Train  Robbery.      1897. 

Janice  Meredith.      1899. 

The  Many-sided  Franklin.      1899. 


Mr.  Ford's  New  House  in  New  York. 


VIII 

Paul  Leicester   Ford 

In  East  Seventy-seventh  Street,  New  Tork, 
and  in  Brooklyn 

THE  library  of  Paul  Leicester  Ford, 
whether  we  visit  the  new  one  he  has 
just  entered  into  occupancy  of  at  37 
East  Seventy-seventh  Street,  or  recall  the  old  one 
in  the  spacious  Brooklyn  mansion,  where  his 
fame  was  first  won,  impresses  the  visitor  as 
"  dukedom  large  enough."  When  Mr.  Ford's 
reputation  had  grown  broad  in  the  land,  but 
with  other  irons  in  the  fire,  notably  with  "  Jan 
ice  Meredith,"  which  first  saw  the  light  in  a 
periodical  and  in  book  form  leapt  to  continental 
popularity,  he  gave  up  his  Brooklyn  home,  where 
he  had  dwelt  from  childhood,  and  went  to  New 
York  to  live.  Here  he  had  bachelor  quarters  in 
the  centre  of  the  town,  and  went  to  many  liter 
ary  gatherings  in  the  winter,  not  infrequently  ris 
ing  to  address  an  assemblage  of  diners  from  his 
place  at  the  guest-table.  He  seemed,  indeed,  to 
have  become  a  confirmed  bachelor  man-of-the- 
world,  and  yet  men  and  women  wondered  how 
a  man  so  apparently  indifferent  to  love  in  the 
[us] 


American  Authors   &  rfheir  Homes 

concrete  could  have  written  such  fiction  as 
his. 

Not  less  delightful  than  startling,  therefore, 
was  the  announcement  in  the  summer  of  1900, 
that  he  would  remain  a  bachelor  no  more.  A 
new  source  of  happiness  was  thus  to  enter  into 
his  singularly  fortunate  career.  It  came  from 
the  hand  and  heart  of  a  beautiful  Brooklyn  girl, 
her  home  not  far  from  his  own  father's  man 
sion — Miss  Grace  Kidder.  Mr.  Ford  at  the 
same  time  set  about  the  building  of  a  New  York 
house  on  that  upper  east  side  near  Central  Park, 
where  dwell  so  many  of  the  worldly  prosperous 
of  New  York's  population. 

Not  content  with  a  house  as  one  in  a  row  of 
similar  structures,  he  purchased  land  on  which 
to  rear  a  thirty-five-foot-front  edifice,  with  am 
ple  space  on  the  west  for  light  through  side- 
windows.  An  American  basement  edifice  is 
this,  constructed  in  the  first  story  of  Indiana 
limestone,  with  Harvard  brick  for  the  upper 
ones  —  a  rather  impressive  -  looking  structure, 
with  its  most  notable  feature  a  storage-room  for 
automobiles,  the  doorway  of  which  divides  with 
the  main  entrance  a  large  part  of  the  frontage. 

But  a  further  word  must  be  written  here  of 
that  Brooklyn  home.  First  among  impressions 
[114] 


Paul  Leicester  Ford 

as  one  used  to  be  ushered  through  the  long 
hallway  on  Clark  Street,  Brooklyn  Heights,  and 
paused  at  the  top  of  the  flight  of  steps  that  form 
the  threshold  to  the  library,  was  one  of  ampli 
tude.  The  house  itself  is  curious  enough,  with 
its  broad  drawing-rooms  on  the  second  floor,  its 
plain,  unassuming  front,  and  its  general  air  of  a 
dwelling  that  has  come  down  from  half  a  cen 
tury  ago.  The  library  was  by  far  the  crowning 
feature.  No  picture  of  Paul  Leicester  Ford, 
historian  and  novelist,  at  home,  would  be  com 
plete,  or  even  suggested,  without  a  word  as  to 
that  workshop,  where  "  Peter  Stirling "  was 
forged  and  some  of  the  best  American  historical 
work  of  the  past  twenty  years  was  done. 

It  was  a  great,  almost  square  apartment  that 
you  peered  down  into  from  the  top  of  these  steps 
at  the  en-d  of  the  hall,  a  room  fifty  by  sixty  feet, 
reared  aloft  by  building  over  the  entire  yard.  A 
huge,  square  skylight  in  its  centre  pours  in  a 
flood  of  sunlight,  and  side-windows  add  to  the 
illumination.  Along  the  four  walls,  in  a  line 
practically  unbroken,  stretched  lengths  of  high 
bookcases,  their  bases  honey-combed  with  shal 
low,  broad,  and  deep  pasteboard  boxes  contain 
ing  rare  autographs,  pamphlets,  and  memoranda. 
In  this  room,  and  in  "  stacks  "  in  an  apartment 
[115] 


American  Authors  &  ^heir  Homes 

of  equal  size  below,  was  housed  perhaps  the 
largest  and  oldest  private  library  of  Americana 
in  what  is  now  Greater  New  York.  Here,  and 
elsewhere  about  the  house,  were  at  least  100,- 
ooo  volumes  and  pamphlets. 

Book-racks,  cases,  tables,  and  four  great  desks 
and  writing-tables  were  parts  of  the  furniture. 
All  were  heaped  high  with  books  and  the  stock- 
in-trade  of  the  delver  into  history.  Desks  and 
writing-tables  supported  piles  of  ancient  books, 
proofs,  memoranda,  pamphlets,  and  manuscripts. 
This  historian  with  his  wealth  of  space,  his  au 
thorities  and  references,  believes  in  heaping  up 
material  and  keeping  it  in  view,  reserving  each 
desk  and  table  for  its  own  piece  of  work. 

So  this  library,  in  comparison  with  others,  was 
indeed  a  "  dukedom."  One  never  knew  in 
which  corner  of  it,  at  which  desk,  he  might  find 
its  master.  Here,  in  the  midst  of  one  volume 
or  another  there  sat  each  morning  the  man  who, 
having  risen  toward  the  top  in  one  branch  of  lit 
erature,  has  gained  success  in  another  almost  at 
one  single  bound — the  success  of  "  Peter  Stir 
ling  "  amplified  vastly  in  the  success  of  "Janice 
Meredith."  Paul  Leicester  Ford's  extraordi 
nary  versatility,  his  skill  at  driving  two  steeds 
without  losing  his  hold  on  either,  is  the  second 
[116] 


Paul  Leicester  Ford 

thought  that  aroused  you.  The  third  is  the 
man's  conversational  cleverness,  his  wit,  his 
pithy,  concise  sentences,  his  ease  in  argument 
and  retort. 

The  noonday  sun  had  very  nearly  reached  its 
traditional  point,  when  this  writer  was  greeted 
by  the  author,  who  at  the  moment  had  the  un 
exampled  honor  of  having  three  books  almost  at 
the  top  among  literary  successes  in  America. 
"  Peter  Stirling,"  though  on  the  market  for  sev 
eral  years,  still  stood  among  the  best-selling 
books  of  the  day  ;  "  The  Story  of  an  Untold 
Love  "  had  a  place  in  similar  category  ;  "  The 
True  George  Washington"  had  proved  the  best- 
bought  book  of  history  issued  for  many  a  year. 
And  now  on  top  of  those  successes  has  come 
one  greater  still — that  of  "  Janice  Meredith." 

An  Angora  cat  stretched  itself  lazily  on  a 
cushioned  chair,  a  black-frocked  stenographer 
clicked  at  the  typewriter,  and  two  uniformed 
maids  noiselessly  swept  off  the  rugs  and  the  pol 
ished  floor  and  "  redded  up  "  (in  good,  honest 
Scotch  phrase)  as  Mr.  Ford  sat  at  the  most 
crowded  of  all  his  desks.  If  ever  an  author 
was  "  at  home  "  in  its  broadest,  truest  sense,  it 
was  this  man.  As  he  returned  to  his  chair  after 
his  guest  had  seated  himself,  the  writer  saw 
[117] 


American  Authors   &  ^lieir  Homes 

clearly  outlined  the  genuine  master  of  a  domain, 
the  man  to  whom  books  and  yellowed  records 
were  a  power.  Books  were  not  all ;  beyond 
them,  he  had  studied  men  and  affairs  at  near 
range.  This  library  was  merely  the  crucible  for 
testing  the  hidden  springs  of  life  and  types. 

Talk  started  with  Peter  Stirling,  that  splen 
did  figure  of  American  fiction  that  portrays  a 
hitherto  unthought-of  ideal  in  politics  and  has 
aroused  much  guesswork  as  to  its  "  original." 
The  guest  told  Mr.  Ford  the  story  of  the  State 
Senator  of  New  York  City  who  talked  the  book 
ardently  at  every  political  club  in  town  for 
months.  The  man  who  made  Peter  Stirling 
laughed.  u  Do  you  know  where  the  demand 
for  that  book  first  came  from  ? "  he  queried. 
"  You  could  never  imagine.  It  was  very  curi 
ous.  c  Peter  Stirling  '  was  published  late  in  the 
fall  of  1894.  It  lay  on  the  shelves  practically 
unsold  for  four  months,  and  looked  like  a  fail 
ure.  One  day  I  went  to  my  publisher's  and, 
much  to  my  surprise,  he  said  :  c  We're  just  get 
ting  ready  to  print  a  new  edition  of "  Peter 
Stirling,"  and  shall  make  a  new  set  of  plates.' 
4  I'm  very  glad  to  hear  that,'  I  replied.  He 
went  on  :  l  Look  over  those  proofs  and  make 
any  changes  you  wish.'  " 
[118] 


Paul  Leicester  Ford 

"  It  was  such  a  surprise  to  me  that  the  next 
time  I  saw  him  I  asked  how  it  happened  that 
the  book  had  jumped  so  suddenly  in  sales. 
Then  it  all  came  out.  San  Francisco  was  the 
place  where  *  Peter  Stirling '  really  started  to 
sell.  Without  any  warning  an  order  came  in 
from  that  city  one  day  for  300  copies.  The 
man  that  ordered  them  was  A.  M.  Robertson,  a 
bookseller  of  San  Francisco,  and  they  thought  in 
the  office  that  he  must  be  crazy.  (I  remarked 
to  my  publisher  when  he  told  me  this,  that  that 
wasn't  a  high  compliment  for  the  book.)  How 
ever,  Robertson  not  only  sold  those  300  copies, 
but  a  little  later  ordered  300  more.  It  was  after 
ward  learned  that  he  had  happened  to  read  the 
book  and  was  so  '  taken '  with  it  that  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  sell  those  300  copies  before  he 
did  anything  else. 

"  Orders  began  to  come  in  from  Michigan 
and  Wisconsin.  Why  from  those  States  no  one 
knows  to  this  day,  but  these  are  the  facts. 
Meanwhile,  the  book  was  not  selling  at  all  in 
Chicago  or  in  New  York.  The  demand  in 
these  and  other  cities  did  not  start  until  '  Peter 
Stirling '  had  pretty  widely  spread  throughout 
the  Middle  West." 

In  this  anecdotal,  discursive  way  Mr.  Ford 
[119] 


American  Authors  &  T'ke/r  Homes 

wandered  on.  The  "  original  "  of  "  Peter  Stir 
ling  "  ?  A  chance  to  get  at  the  truth  of  that, 
and  so  settle  a  literary  controversy,  was  too 
precious  to  lose.  Mr.  Ford  went  into  a  brown 
study  at  once.  "  I  don't  blame  people  for  think 
ing  that  Peter  Stirling  is  Grover  Cleveland," 
he  said,  "  for,  really,  there  are  many  points  of 
resemblance.  But  the  fact  is  that  Peter  Stir 
ling  is  no  one  in  particular.  He  grew  out  of 
my  political  experiences  in  the  First  Ward  of 
Brooklyn  some  years  ago. 

"  I  worked  in  politics  quite  a  time,  and  I  came 
to  find  out  that  no  man  of  the  better  class  could 
succeed  against  the  little  or  big  bosses,  for  the 
simple  reason  that  he  would  never  give  the  time 
to  handling  and  entering  into  the  lives  of  the 
people.  Take  my  own  experience.  I  was  liked 
and  was  treated  well,  but  I  was  without  influ 
ence,  except,"  and  here  there  was  a  sly  twinkle 
in  Mr.  Ford's  eye,  "  with  a  plumber  who  had 
done  work  on  several  of  our  houses  for  some 
years.  His  support  I  could  always  count  on  at 
the  primaries,  even  if  he  really  wanted  to  vote 
the  other  way.  I  suppose,"  and  Peter  Stir 
ling's  creator  grew  more  jovial,  "  that  I  could 
have  controlled  the  ward  if  I  had  employed 
enough  workmen. 

[120] 


Paul  Leicester  Ford 

"  No,  Peter  Stirling  is  a  composite  of  four 
great  American  statesmen.  I  had  in  mind 
Washington,  Lincoln,  and  two  others.  It  is  an 
attempt  to  show  how  a  man  of  the  noblest  aims 
can  get  close  to  the  people  and  rule  them." 

Mr.  Ford  chatted  of  his  surprise  at  the  pop 
ular  success  of "  An  Untold  Love,"  which  he 
expected  would  be  liked  only  by  the  few,  and  he 
told  how  he  came  to  write  his  "  Great  K.  and 
A.  Train  Robbery."  ("  The  reason  most  rail 
road  robbery  stories  fail  is  because  people  do 
not  like  to  have  their  hero  a  villain,  so  I  had  to 
devise  a  way  of  holding  the  interest  while  making 
my  hero  moderately  good.")  He  was  merry  as 
he  related  how  women  had  told  him  he  could 
not  draw  a  woman  that  was  real  and  that  they 
liked,  facts  which  must  have  put  him  to  his 
spurs  when. writing  "Janice  Meredith." 

Mr.  Ford  is  still  young.  He  is  thirty-six. 
Until  a  few  years  ago  his  work  was  solely  his 
torical.  Ill-health  in  childhood  and  early  man 
hood  prevented  him  from  going  to  school  or 
college.  He  was  simply  turned  loose  in  his 
father's  library — the  library  of  Gordon  L.  Ford. 
At  the  age  of  eleven  he  was  an  editor  and 
printer.  He  and  his  brother,  Worthington  C. 
Ford,  formerly  Chief  of  the  Bureau  of  Statistics, 


American  Authors  &  'Their  Homes 

editor  of  "  The  Writings  of  Washington,"  and 
author  of  a  "  Life  of  Washington,"  actually 
"set  up"  his  first  work.  Mr.  Ford's  histor 
ical  publications,  big  and  little,  many  of  them 
reprints  of  scarce  writings  edited  by  him,  num 
ber  an  easy  hundred.  Under  the  imprint  of 
the  Historical  Printing  Club  he  and  his  brother 
Worthington  issued  books  and  pamphlets.  His 
hand,  in  the  main,  has  been  on  men  and  affairs 
of  the  Revolutionary  period.  Into  Colonial 
records  he  has  seldom  ventured.  Few  readers  of 
"  Janice  Meredith  "  have  understood  how  ample 
was  the  historical  knowledge  out  of  which  Mr. 
Ford  wrote  that  book. 


[122] 


"John   Fiske 

In  Cambridge,  Mass, 


BY    MR.    FISKE 

Born  in   1842    in   Hartford,    Conn.      Died  in   East  Gloucester  in 
July,  1901 

Myths  and  Myth  Makers.      1872. 

The  Destiny  of  Man.      1884. 

American  Political  Ideas.      1885. 

The  Beginnings  of  New  England.      1887. 

The  Critical  Period  of  American  History.      1888. 

The  American  Revolution.      1891. 

The  Discovery  of  America.      1892. 

History  of  the  United  States  for  Schools.      1894. 

Old  Virginia  and  Her  Neighbors.      1897. 

A  Century  of  Science.      1899. 

The  Dutch  and  Quaker  Colonies  in  Ameuca.      1899. 


IX 

John   Fiske 

In  Cambridge,  Mass. 

IT  is  not  likely  to  be  disputed  that  the  man 
who  to-day  has  stood  pre-eminently  for  the 
best  Boston  traditions  in  moral  and  social 
life  is  John  Fiske,  essayist,  philosopher,  his 
torian,  and  lecturer.  In  everything  that  makes 
for  culture  and  the  higher  kinds  of  public  activ 
ity  his  voice  commanded  great  attention.  The 
cause  was  poor  indeed  that  could  not  enlist  him 
as  a  zealous  and  eloquent  champion.  "The 
Old  South  Church  and  John  Fiske  inside  it  are 
a  combination  that  can  make  an  honest  patriot 
of  anyone,"  was  the  remark  of  a  certain  Boston 
statesman.  Those  words  only  reflect  the  public 
estimation  in  which  this  big,  hearty,  clear-minded 
teacher  of  the  people  has  been  held.  Parkman, 
Prescott,  Motley,  Bancroft,  Fiske — these  are  our 
best  writers  of  history.  Greatest  of  these  is 
Parkman,  and  not  the  least  is  Fiske,  who  was 
stricken  dead  early  in  July,  1901,  in  what  seemed 
to  be  his  prime. 

It  is  an  ever-debated  question  which   exerts 
the  greater  influence — the  environment  on  the 


American  Authors  &  Their  Homes 

man  or  the  man  on  the  environment.  In  John 
Fiske's  case  the  matter  may  be  said  to  be  very 
nicely  balanced.  Undoubtedly  Cambridge,  where 
he  lived,  by  the  richness  of  its  culture  and  the 
splendor  of  its  institutions,  moulded  and  stim 
ulated  him ;  just  as  he  made  his  impress  upon 
the  life  of  that  beautiful  town  and,  indeed,  far 
beyond  its  confines.  So  the  visitor  who  sought 
him  felt  a  double  sense  of  satisfaction — that  of 
the  place  and  that  of  the  dweller. 

If  you  would  follow  in  the  steps  of  the  book 
ish  pilgrim  who  writes  this  sketch  and,  finding 
yourself  some  fine  day  in  Harvard  Square,  where 
two  centuries  of  learning  and  the  newest  thing 
in  golf  suits  look  out  upon  you  from  the  "yard," 
proceed  to  that  shaggy  but  still  virile  sentinel,  the 
Washington  elm,  you  will  then  strike  into  Con 
cord  Avenue,  a  long  famous  thoroughfare  down 
which  the  British  marched  back  to  Boston  after 
their  troublous  day  at  Lexington  and  beyond. 
After  a  little,  you  will  reach  Craigie  Street,  which 
you  may  recognize  by  the  loveliest  archwork  of 
elm  branches  that  one  may  see  in  many  a  day. 
It  is  only  a  step  to  Berkeley  Street,  where  stands 
John  Fiske's  house.  Had  he  lived  this  house 
would  not  have  long  remained  his  home.  He 
was  just  ready  to  move  into  another  in  Brattle 
[126] 


John  Fiske 

Street  near  the  Craigie  mansion.  Indeed  he 
had  begun  to  have  his  books  packed  for  the  re 
moval — 12,000  books.  And  then  death  came. 

Cambridge  is  fine  and  classic  ground.  In  one 
direction,  under  the  tops  of  stately  trees,  lies  the 
lovely  Longfellow  estate,  now  somewhat  more 
crowded  than  of  yore  by  the  addition  of  two 
new  houses  to  its  grassy  expanse.  In  another 
lies  the  Worcester  domain,  of  which  Mr.  Fiske's 
land  was  once  a  part.  The  old  dictionary-maker 
was  a  famous  owner  of  acres  in  his  day,  and 
many  are  the  house-lots  that  have  been  carved 
out  of  his  holdings.  There  is  a  considerable 
tract  still  inviolate,  but  its  value  inevitably  fore 
tells  its  dismemberment. 

No.  22  Berkeley  Street  is  a  substantial  square 
house  of  the  mansard-roofed  type,  so  popular 
twenty  years  ago.  It  is  quiet  drab  in  color,  and 
its  chief  characteristic  from  the  street  is  the  large 
covered  stoop,  generously  disposed,  and  in  sum 
mer  set  off  with  ferns,  cacti,  and  palms.  Back 
of  the  dwelling  is  a  trim,  green  space,  whose 
chief  glory  is  a  great  silver  poplar  of  at  least  a 
century's  growth.  Baby  evergreens  are  scat 
tered  about,  as  well  as  a  number  of  stiff  and 
lean  poplars.  Here,  or  rather  to  the  long  piazza 
overlooking  the  place,  Mr.  Fiske  would  probably 
[127] 


American  Authors   &  rfheir  Homes 

first  take  you  if  the  day  were  warm,  and  from  a 
huge  rocking-chair  chat  pleasantly  about  your 
errand  or  any  other  subject  you  might  care  to 
suggest. 

Nothing  could  be  simpler  or  more  sincerely 
kind  than  was  this  big-brained  man's  reception. 
He  told  you  how  he  selected  his  ground  a  score 
of  years  ago ;  how  he  added  to  it  to  prevent  some 
too-neighborly  house  from  rising;  how  a  family 
of  crows  had  for  years  maintained  a  home  in  the 
trees  yonder,  unterrified  by  the  building  opera 
tions  that  have  gone  on  in  Berkeley  Place,  a 
charming  little  no-thoroughfare  that  runs  by  one 
side  of  his  estate ;  how  the  other  birds  came  and 
went,  and  what  vines  thrived  best  along  the 
piazza. 

Then  you  perhaps  took  a  quick,  mental  photo 
graph  of  the  man.  He  was  big,  tall,  and  burly. 
His  head  was  large,  and  his  florid  face  fittingly 
girt  with  a  full,  brown  beard,  touched  with  gray, 
rather  long  and  rather  careless.  The  whole 
make-up  suggested  the  Norseman.  But  the  calm 
and  deliberate  speech  betrayed  the  philosopher, 
the  man  who  would  not  deliver  an  opinion  in  a 
rush.  "  I  hate  to  go  off  half-cocked,"  was  his 
very  characteristic  remark  in  the  course  of  some 
conversation  on  the  Philippine  Question.  Mr. 
[128] 


John  Fiske 

Fiske,  while  not  an  imperialist  by  instinct,  was 
somewhat  of  a  believer  in  "  national  destiny," 
and  inclined  to  think  that  policies  often  shape 
themselves  wisely  in  spite  of  us.  He  regarded 
the  holding  of  Philippine  territory  and  expansion 
in  the  East  as  something  to  which  we  might  be 
compelled  to  adapt  ourselves,  and  saw  no  great 
danger  therein  to  the  moral  prestige  of  the 
country. 

Mr.  Fiske's  library  and  working-place  was  just 
the  spot  where  one  might  expect  notable  histori 
cal  works  to  be  born.  It  was  a  large,  high,  and 
raftered  room,  elegantly  sombre  in  design  and 
finish.  Its  pictures  and  ornaments  were  of  dig 
nity  and  value.  Thousands  of  books  lined  its 
walls  from  end  to  end  and  from  floor  to  ceiling. 
Ponderous  tomes  were  scattered  about  on  tables 
and  revolving  cases.  Everything  had  the  air  of 
a  place  where  research  was  made.  Over  the 
ample  fireplace  —  a  practical  one,  where  big 
logs  glow  in  winter — was  this  motto,  which  had 
no  idle  meaning  there  :  Disce  ut  semper  victurus  ; 
vive  ut  eras  moriturus. 

The  historian's  writing-place  was  an  interest 
ing  example  of  household  evolution.  It  stood 
in  a  large,  square  bay-window,  originally  thrown 
out  from  the  library  as  a  means  of  observation 
[  129] 


American  Authors  &  'T'heir  Homes 

and  rest.  Finding  the  light  in  the  main  room 
not  exactly  satisfactory,  Mr.  Fiske  bethought 
himself  of  the  aforesaid  nook  and  moved  all  his 
literary  paraphernalia  into  it  with  most  excellent 
results. 

With  great  windows  on  three  sides,  the  light 
is  perfect,  and  in  summer  a  fine  breeze  is  always 
wafted  through.  Here,  on  a  plain  table  piled 
high  with  manuscripts  and  reference  books,  have 
been  written  the  different  volumes  comprising 
the  monumental  History  of  the  United  States, 
which  was  still  in  progress.  His  latest  contribu 
tion  to  the  series  was  "  The  Dutch  and  Quakef 
Colonies,"  which  included  New  York,  New 
Jersey,  Pennsylvania,  and  Delaware. 

The  making  of  histories  is  never  rapid  work, 
and  Mr.  Fiske  was  content  with  an  average  of 
twelve  or  fifteen  hundred  words  a  day.  At  one 
time  he  worked  a  great  deal  at  night,  and  even 
into  the  morning  hours,  but  he  said  he  found  such 
labor  exacted  payment  next  day,  and  he  then 
used  the  forenoon  instead.  Besides  mere  writ 
ing,  there  was  involved  in  his  work  an  immense 
amount  of  reading,  research,  and  journeying  to 
and  fro  in  preparation  for  writing.  What  with 
his  lecturing  and  the  thousand  and  one  demands 
made  upon  his  time  as  a  citizen  of  prominence, 
[  130] 


John  Fiske 

he  was  a  busy  man  indeed.  He  rarely  took  a 
vacation,  although  he  sometimes  enjoyed  a  day's 
outing  down  Boston  Harbor  with  a  jolly  party 
of  friends  on  a  quest  for  fish. 

It  would  be  the  merest  commonplace  to  say 
that  in  his  death  American  historical  literature 
has  met  with  a  distinct  loss.  The  event  means 
far  more  than  that — means  so  much,  indeed, 
that  words  will  fail  to  express  it.  Better  than 
any  man  writing  for  this  generation,  he  held  up 
the  standard  so  long  maintained  by  Parkman — a 
standard  to  which  Parkman  gave  the  noblest 
qualities  and  permanent  lustre.  Mr.  Fiske's 
published  tribute  to  Parkman,  fine  as  it  is  in 
other  ways,  possesses  nothing  more  interesting 
than  the  revelation  it  affords  of  his  own  ideals  of 

I  excellence  in  the  historian — ideals  toward  which 
he  strove  with  an  intelligence  and  application 
that  have  made  each  succeeding  book  from  his 
hands  seem  finer  than  any  that  preceded  it. 

John  Fiske  had  many  qualities  that  will  secure 
for  his  name  long  remembrance  and  a  continuous 
following  of  readers.  Above  all  things,  he  knew 
his  theme  and  was  a  perfect  master  of  his  mate 
rial,  being  never  in  any  way  in  subjection  to  it. 
Conspicuous  also  was  his  style — clear  and  limpid 
always,  picturesque  where  the  occasion  was  fit 
[131] 


American  Authors  &  T^heir  Homes 

for  it,  and  constantly  delightful.  Simply  as  a 
force  in  elementary  education,  his  influence  has 
been  far-reaching  and  will  long  last.  That  su 
perb  school  history  he  wrote  of  this  country  has 
exerted  wide  sway  and  is  fit  for  still  wider.  In 
it  we  have  a  classic. 

John  Fiske  was  not  an  old  man.  Such  vital 
ity  seemed  to  be  in  him,  with  that  imposing  per 
sonality,  that  inexhaustible  power  for  work,  that 
he  surely  was  thought  destined  to  live  out  the 
Psalmist's  term  or  beyond  it.  The  books  he 
might  have  written,  and  of  which  the  plans  must 
have  been  in  his  head,  if  not  in  his  note-books  ! 
— what  a  loss  all  these  reflections  mean,  what 
additions  impossible  now  to  that  splendid  series, 
which,  taken  together,  must  eventually  have 
formed  a  complete  history  of  the  lands  we  call 
the  United  States. 

But  here  surely  is  not  the  place  to  estimate 
the  work  John  Fiske  has  done,  or  the  extent  of 
our  debt  to  him,  a  debt  we  shall  understand  all 
the  better  now  that  he  is  gone.  It  is  rather  the 
place  to  record  the  deepest  sorrow  at  his  un 
timely  departure  from  a  world  he  made  so  much 
wiser  and  richer. 

The  work  he  might  have  done,  and  the  joy 
he  would  have  had  in  doing  it,  in  that  new 
[13=] 


John  Fiske 

Brattle  Street  home,  to  which,  since  his  death, 
the  entire  collection  of  his  books  has  been  taken 
— in  all  1 2,000  of  them  !  There,  in  a  room 
fifty  feet  by  twenty  in  size,  finished  in  antique 
oak,  with  an  oaken  floor  and  windows  of  leaded 
glass  set  in  diamond  shapes,  stands  this  collec 
tion  which  its  owner  was  never  to  set  glad  eyes 
upon  in  the  new  shelter  he  had  planned  for  it. 
A  broad  fireplace  opens  itself  at  one  side  of  the 
room.  Above  it,  and  just  beneath  the  oaken 
mantel-top,  stands  a  slab,  brought  from  the 
Berkeley  Street  house,  bearing  in  letters  of  gold 
the  inscription  in  Latin  already  mentioned : 
"  Learn  as  if  to  live  forever ;  live  as  if  to  die 
to-morrow."  Surely  we  have  here  one  of  the 
finer  examples  of  the  pathos  of  human  life. 


[  133] 


George    W^.  Cable 

In  Northampton^  Mass. 


BY    MR.  CABLE 

Born  in  1844,  in  New  Orleans 

Old  Creole  Days.      1879. 

The  Grandissimes.      1880. 

Madame  Delphine.      1881. 

Dr.  Sevier.      1882. 

The  Creoles  of  the  South.      1884. 

The  Silent  South.      1885. 

Bonaventure.      1 888. 

Strange  True  Stories  of  Louisiana.      I 

The  Negro  Question.      1890. 

John  March,  Southerner.      1894. 

Strong  Hearts.      1899. 


X 


George    tf^.  Cable 
In  Northampton,  Mass. 

THERE  are  few  literary  men  who  have  a 
sweeter  and  more  congenial  home  than 
George  W.  Cable.  Every  visitor  to 
"  Tarryawhile  "  carries  away  a  feeling  of  hav 
ing  seen  a  truly  happy  home.  "  Tarryawhile  " 
is  in  Northampton,  Mass.,  a  mile  away  from 
what  bustle  there  is  in  this  quiet  old  town.  You 
come  to  it  after  walking  up  the  hill  past  the 
Smith  College  buildings,  passing  groups  of  girls 
with  books  under  their  arms,  and  after  walking 
up  grand  old  Elm  Street,  broad  and  winding, 
shaded  by  great  trees,  and  flanked  by  fine  old 
residences  on  either  side,  each  with  its  little  park 
of  trees  around  it.  Your  guide  will  direct  you 
to  turn  to  your  left,  while  you  are  still  among 
these  comfortable  homes,  and  will  point  out  at 
the  end  of  the  side  street  Mr.  Cable's  house. 
This  street  is  newer  and  contains  in  the  main 
modern  houses,  although  Mr.  Cable's  house  is 
of  the  old-fashioned  type  you  have  met  on  your 
way.  Standing  as  it  does  at  the  head  of  the 
street,  its  hospitable  door  faces  you  on  your 
[i37l 


American  Authors  &  rfheir  Homes 

way  down.  Where  the  houses  end  are  daisy 
fields. 

Here  the  author  of  "  Old  Creole  Days," 
"  Madame  Delphine,"  and  "  Bonaventure,"  and 
other  books  that  have  touched  men's  hearts, 
lives  and  writes.  It  is  a  beautiful  spot,  and  one 
that  is  appropriate  to  the  man  whose  creation  it 
is.  The  house  stands  back  from  the  street  on  an 
embankment.  It  is  Colonial  in  architecture, 
plain,  but  attractive.  A  stoop  flanked  with  new 
els  forms  a  framework  for  the  old-fashioned 
doorway,  with  its  swinging  halves  and  oldtime 
brass  knocker. 

On  the  east  side  of  the  house  extends  a  wide 
piazza.  The  whole  aspect  of  the  place  is  pictu 
resque.  The  house,  painted  yellow  and  bufF,  is 
backed  by  a  grove  of  magnificent  pines  that 
plunge  suddenly  downward  to  a  brook,  a  few  feet 
from  the  rear  of  the  house,  a  spot  which  for 
nearly  a  century  has  been  named  Paradise.  From 
the  veranda  one  can  see  far  into  the  distance  to 
the  Holyoke  Hills  and  Mount  Holyoke,  and 
farther  to  the  south  its  twin  and  comrade,  Mount 
Tom.  Between  these  two  bluffs  flows  the  Con 
necticut. 

The  visitor  will  have  no  difficulty  in  finding 
the  master  of  the  house.  The  Cables  are 
[138] 


George  W.  Cable 

the  most  hospitable  folk,  and  nobody  is  ever 
denied  entrance  to  the  house  or  audience  with 
the  novelist,  no  matter  who  he  may  be.  Dur 
ing  a  summer  spent  with  him  the  writer  learned 
lessons  of  the  finest  humility  and  the  most  whole- 
souled  human  sympathy.  From  the  neighbor 
who  runs  in  to  ask  a  favor,  or  the  humblest  work 
man  of  Northampton  who  wants  a  penny  or  a 
job  at  weeding  the  garden,  to  Mr.  Cable's  peers 
in  literature,  everybody  is  welcome.  No  one  is 
made  to  feel  that  he  has  intruded  at  any  hour  of 
the  day  or  night. 

It  is  this  quality  that  has  endeared  the  novelist 
to  everyone  in  Northampton,  though  undoubt 
edly  many  good  folk  wonder  what  an  able-bodied 
man  can  think  of  himself  who  doesn't  do  a  stroke 
of  work,  but  writes  books  and  goes  skylarking 
around  the  United  States  giving  lectures.  If 
you  meet  Mr.  Cable  in  society  you  are  im 
pressed  with  his  intellect,  his  humanity,  his  wit 
and  poetry  in  expression  ;  but  if  you  see  him 
at  home,  you  see  all  that  and  much  besides. 
There  he  is  the  husband  and  the  father,  the 
lover  and  the  friend,  gay,  bright,  and  happy, 
the  soul  and  spirit  of  the  family,  the  leader  in 
all  the  fun. 

At  the  right  of  the  wide  hallway,  the  floor 
[  139] 


American  Authors  &  *fheir  Homes 

covered  with  rugs,  are  the  sitting-room  and 
library,  the  one  behind  the  other,  with  a  broad 
door  between,  where  he  sees  his  friends.  The 
first  is  a  small,  corner  room,  with  a  cheerful 
fireplace,  several  rocking-chairs  and  a  book-rack, 
and  here  he  will  meet  you  and  talk  by  the  hour, 
rocking  back  and  forth  in  his  chair.  It  looks 
like  a  literary  workroom — wide  and  low,  and 
strewn  with  books  and  papers  in  endless  dis 
array.  Low  bookshelves  run  on  all  sides,  and 
in  the  middle  is  a  table,  piled  with  magazines 
and  papers.  The  walls  are  hung  with  portraits 
and  paintings. 

But  behind  the  house  and  across  the  lawn,  in 
the  edge  of  the  pine  grove,  is  the  real  workshop, 
a  red-tiled  cottage  of  two  rooms,  one  above  the 
other,  and  here  in  his  working-hours  nobody  is 
admitted  except  Mrs.  Cable.  Here  a  typewriter 
stands  near  one  of  the  windows  and  for  Mr. 
Cable  himself  there  is  the  inevitable  rocking- 
chair.  Here  Mr.  Cable  sits  for  hours  each  day, 
writing.  He  has  acquired  the  habit  of  writing 
on  every  available  and  unavailable  place  except 
a  table. 

Mr.  Cable's  favorite  posture  is  in  his  rocking- 
chair,  with  the  pad  on  the  arm,  or  with  one  leg 
thrown  over  the  other,  writing  on  his  knee.  He 
[  140] 


George  W.  Cable 

writes  with  a  pencil  on  the  backs  of  envelopes, 
with  which  his  pockets  are  crammed,  or  on 
the  edges  of  newspapers.  Through  habit,  he 
saves  scraps  of  paper,  and  at  the  end  of  a  day 
many  of  these  will  bear  some  of  his  finest  sen 
tences. 

Mr.  Cable  is  most  delighted  when  showing  a 
visitor  his  trees.  He  has  made  paths  down  to 
the  small  river  at  the  rear  of  his  house,  and  cut 
away  the  underbrush,  so  that  Paradise,  clear 
down  to  "Lovers'  Lane,"  is  a  most  beautiful 
spot.  Mr.  Cable  counts  more  than  seventy 
varieties  of  trees  on  his  small  domain ;  next  to 
being  a  novelist,  he  is  a  lover  of  trees.  Around 
his  house  are  many  small  trees  set  out  by  fa 
mous  men  who  have  visited  him. 

Mr.  Cable  has  always  been  engaged  more  or 
less  in  philanthropic  work,  to  the  loss  of  his 
literary  output,  as  some  fancy,  but  this  is  very 
doubtful,  as  in  any  case  he  would,  and  will, 
always  be,  by  avowed  choice,  a  slow  worker 
and  sparse  producer.  He  has  been  intensely 
interested  in  work  among  people  of  barren 
homes,  and  has  purchased  in  Northampton  a 
church,  which  he  has  fixed  up  as  a  young 
men's  and  Women's  club-house  for  the  impar- 
tation  of  many  sorts  of  "  Home-Culture  "  club. 
[141] 


American  Authors   &  rfheir  Homes 

The  actual  working  of  the  club  has  been  given 
over  to  a  general  secretary,  but  Mr.  Cable  still 
visits  it  often  in  the  evening,  and  is  forever 
working  on  new  schemes  to  help  the  youth  of 
Northampton. 


[142] 


Joaquin    Miller 
On  the  Heights  back  of  Oakland,  Cat. 


BY    MR.   MILLER 

Born  in  1841,  in  the  Wabaih  District  of  Indiana 

Songs  of  the  Sierras.      1871. 

Songs  of  the  Lowlands.      1873. 

The  Ship  in  the  Desert.      1875. 

The  First  Families  of  the  Sierras.      1875. 

The  Baroness  of  New  York.      1877. 

Songs  of  Italy.      1878. 

Shadows  of  Shasta.      1881. 

The  Gold-Seekers  of  the  Sierras.      1884. 

Songs  of  the  Mexican  Seas.      1887. 

Songs  of  the  Soul.      1896. 


XI 
Joaquin   Miller 

On  the  Heights  back  of  Oakland,  Cal. 

TO  see  a  poet  near  at  hand,  to  see  him  in 
his  own  home,  is  generally  matter  for 
disillusion.      One  recalls  that  amusing 
confession  by  Howells  of  his  first  meeting  with 
Charles  Warren  Stoddard  and  his  deep  disap 
pointment  that  the  author  of  "Chumming  With 
a  Savage  "  should  have  been  so  different   from 
his  ideal.      Even  Tennyson,  when  he  growled 
over  Max  Miiller's  mutton  chops,  showed  the 
feet  of  clay. 

But  one  who  sees  Joaquin  Miller,  the  Poet 
of  the  Sierras,  in  his  own  home  on  the  heights 
back  of  Oakland,  need  not  fear  any  disappoint 
ment  ;  for  Joaquin  is  a  living  embodiment  of 
his  poetry.  Absolutely  unlike,  in  his  work,  any 
other  poet  of  his  day  and  generation,  he  is  equally 
unlike  his  brethren  in  his  personal  traits  and  in 
his  home.  For  years  that  home,  overlooking 
the  Golden  Gate,  had  been  his  dream,  and  even 
as  far  back  as  twenty  years  ago,  when  he  was 
the  literary  lion  of  London  for  a  season  and  was 
the  favorite  of  Tennyson,  Browning,  Rossetti, 
[i45l 


American  Authors   &  ^lieir  Homes 

Swinburne,  and  William  Morris,  he  saw  as  in  a 
vision  the  place  which  he  was  to  create  for  a 
hermitage : 

"I  know  a  grassy  slope  above  the  sea, 
The  utmost  limit  of  the  Western  land. 

Here  I  shall  sit  in  sunlit  life's  decline 
Beneath  my  vine  and  sombre  verdant  tree. 
Some  tawny  maids  in  other  tongues  than  mine 
Shall  minister.      Some  memories  shall  be 
Before  me.      I  shall  sit  and  I  shall -see 
That  last,  vast  day  that  dawn  shall  re-inspire, 
The  sun  fall  down  upon  the  farther  sea, 
Fall  wearied  down  to  rest,  and  so  retire, 
A  splendid  sinking  isle  of  far-off  fading  fire." 

With  slight  poetic  license  this  will  serve  as 
an  accurate  description  of  the  Heights,  Joaquin 
Miller's  home,  which  is  about  eight  miles  back 
of  the  little  village  of  Fruitvale,  a  suburb  of 
Oakland.  It  is  reached  by  the  electric  cars  and 
a  stiff  walk  of  a  mile  and  a  half  up  a  winding 
foothill  road,  much  of  the  way  under  the  pleasant 
shade  of  eucalyptus  and  acacia  trees.  Before  one 
is  the  first  high  ridge  of  hills,  which  forms  the 
base  of  a  spur  of  the  coast  range  of  mountains. 
At  every  turn  of  the  road  superb  glimpses  of 
Oakland  and  of  San  Francisco  Bay  are  caught, 
[146] 


Joaquin  Miller 

framed  in  the  vivid  green  foliage  of  the  Austra 
lian  gum-trees. 

When  at  last  the  crown  of  the  hill  is  reached 
and  one  stands  before  the  poet's  home,  a  splendid 
prospect  is  unrolled,  such  as  may  be  seen  from 
only  a  few  of  the  great  mountains  of  California. 
The  elevation  is  only  a  few  hundred  feet,  but 
the  spot  commands  an  enormous  range.  All 
around  are  rolling  hills,  flanked  by  tawny  moun 
tains,  fading  into  the  purple-blue  of  the  distant 
horizon,  crowned  by  Mount  Diablo.  Below 
and  on  clear  days,  seemingly  only  a  gunshot 
away,  are  Oakland  and  Alameda  and  the  green 
marshes  and  lagoons  that  form  the  crescent 
shore  of  San  Francisco  Bay.  For  fifty  miles 
the  eye  takes  in  the  superb  sweep  of  this  incom 
parable  bay,  and  then  it  rests  with  delight  on  the 
distant  city  of  San  Francisco,  piled  high  on  its 
hundred  hills,  its  windows  flashing  back  the 
brilliant  sunshine.  Beyond,  to  the  right,  one 
looks  through  the  nearly  clasped  arms  of  leaden- 
colored  land — through  the  famous  Golden  Gate 
—out  to  the  deep,  blue  Pacific,  which  has  never 
lost  its  mystery  since  Balboa  first  beheld  it, 
"  Silent  upon  a  peak  in  Darien." 

The  contour  of  hills  is  such  that  one  seemj 
cut  off  from  the  world  and  left  to  the  fellowship 
[147] 


American  Authors  &  Their  Homes 

of  mountain,  sea,  and  sky.  Turning,  however, 
from  this  great  panorama,  the  poet's  home  is 
seen.  It  consists  of  several  small  houses,  half 
hidden  among  trees  and  vines  and  flanked  by 
winding,  tree-shaded  paths,  walled  up  with  stones, 
which  reach  clear  to  the  summit  of  the  little  hills 
behind.  Entering  the  gateway,  one  passes  over 
a  little  bridge  which  spans  a  ditch  of  clear,  run 
ning  water  and  comes  to  the  poet's  own  house, 
a  Gothic  cottage,  with  small  porch  and  wide- 
open  door. 

A  little  way  up  the  steep  hillside  are  three 
other  houses,  all  half  concealed  in  a  maze  of 
roses,  passion  flowers,  acacia,  climbing  ivy,  cedar, 
spruce,  pine,  and  eucalyptus.  Regular  thickets 
are  here  of  the  Cherokee  rose  and  tangles  of  La 
France  and  other  beautiful  roses,  with  the  varied 
greens  of  the  cedar,  the  olive,  and  the  pine. 
When  Henry  Irving  and  Ellen  Terry  visited 
Miller  about  four  years  ago,  the  pathway  from 
the  road  to  the  house  over  which  the  famous 
actors  walked  was  covered  with  the  choicest  of 
roses.  Through  all  this  shrubbery  run  ditches 
with  life-giving  water,  that  water  which,  with 
the  California  sunshine,  like  that  of  Palestine, 
makes  a  desert  blossom  as  the  rose. 

Miller  did  not  have  the  desert  to  transform, 
[148] 


Joaquin  Miller 

but  he  did  have  a  high,  dry,  rocky  hillside.  He 
has  converted  it  into  a  little  paradise  of  rich 
blooms  and  sweet  odors.  Welcome  as  the 
shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land  is  the 
sight  of  this  flower-garden,  set  in  the  brown 
bosom  of  the  hills.  More  than  a  dozen  springs 
have  been  developed,  and  by  means  of  pipes 
and  ditches  the  poet  has  fountains  and  fish-ponds 
at  his  very  door. 

It  was  a  hot  afternoon  when  the  writer 
climbed  the  road  to  the  Heights,  and,  entering 
the  Gothic  cottage,  found  the  poet  enjoying  the 
coolness  of  an  adjoining  room,  upon  the  roof  of 
which  an  artificial  shower  was  descending.  In 
a  rainless  season  the  effect  of  this  patter  of  the 
drops  on  the  roof  was  delightful  and  soothing. 
The  miracle  was  performed  by  the  simple  means 
of  a  perforated  pipe  leading  over  the  house. 
The  poet  was  seated  on  a  pallet  in  the  corner. 
In  his  usual  afternoon  garb,  he  was  as  pictu 
resque  as  his  surroundings. 

Imagine  a  man  of  tall,  athletic  build,  with 
fine,  dome-shaped  brow ;  long,  tawny  hair 
streaked  with  gray  ;  a  tangle  of  yellow  mustache 
and  beard  ;  a  strong,  large  nose,  sunburned  like 
his  cheeks,  and  clear,  flashing,  gray-blue  eyes 
that  look  out  from  under  heavy,  bushy  eyebrows 
1 149] 


American  Authors  &  tfheir  Homes 

with  the  quickness  and  the  eagerness  of  a  boy's. 
Something  there  is  of  the  scout  and  the  plains 
man  in  the  eyes,  face,  and  movements.  He 
looks  as  one  fancies  Kit  Carson  looked  when 
he  guided  Fremont  the  Pathfinder  through  the 
hostile  Indian  country  out  to  the  Western  sea. 
Miller  was  dressed  in  a  corduroy  coat,  trousers 
in  boots,  pongee  shirt,  with  loose  Japanese  silk 
neck-scarf,  and  broad  sombrero.  The  whole 
appearance  of  the  man  suggested  his  revolt 
against  any  restraint  of  costume,  just  as  his  talk 
suggests  his  warfare  on  conventionality  and  his 
delight  in  what  is  free  and  spontaneous  in  nature 
and  life. 

The  poet's  workroom  is  the  main  apartment 
of  the  Gothic  cottage.  The  sun  streams  in 
through  the  open  door.  The  walls  are  ceiled 
with  the  California  redwood,  unstained  and  with 
out  touch  of  shellac  or  oil.  On  the  bare  floor 
are  a  few  fine  skins,  and  on  the  bed  in  the 
corner  are  other  robes.  The  remainder  of  the 
furniture  consists  of  a  bureau,  with  a  wide-open 
top  drawer,  mainly  used  as  a  receptacle  for 
"  copy,"  and  a  couple  of  chairs.  On  the  walls 
are  many  photographs  and  engravings  of  famous 
men — Tennyson,  Browning,  Morris,  Sir  Walter 
Besant,  Garibaldi,  Napoleon,  and  many  others, 
[150] 


Joaquin  Miller 

with  some  ideal  heads  from  the  English  weekly 
papers.  On  the  bureau  is  a  glass  with  some 
beautiful  roses. 

Miller  works  wholly  in  bed.  When  he 
wakes  in  the  morning  he  has  his  coffee.  Then 
he  makes  a  bolster  of  his  pillows,  gets  out  a 
large  manila  pad,  and  goes  to  work.  He  usu 
ally  writes  in  pencil,  in  big  hieroglyphics,  which 
only  those  trained  to  the  peculiarities  of  his  pen 
manship  can  decipher.  These  sheets  are  after 
ward  typewritten.  He  waits  for  this  transcript 
before  making  any  corrections.  As  a  rule,  he 
works  steadily  till  noon.  Then  he  dresses, 
has  lunch  with  his  family,  and  devotes  the  re 
mainder  of  the  day  to  labor  or  recreation  out  of 
doors. 

With  Miller  the  gift  of  song  came  by  nature  ; 
it  has  never  been  developed  by  art.  The  lyric 
faculty,  which  one  of  our  best  critics  declares 
that  he  has  in  greater  measure  than  any  American 
poet  except  Poe,  he  uses  with  the  same  freedom 
that  a  great  singer  uses  his  voice.  Words  come 
to  him  without  effort,  and  language  becomes 
plastic  under  his  hand  as  it  has  only  been  in  this 
age  under  the  hands  of  Tennyson  and  Swin 
burne. 

His  best  work  breathes  his  love  for  the  moun- 
[151] 


American  Authors  &  cfheir  Homes 

tains  and  the  forests  of  the  Sierras,  the  home  of 
his  boyhood  ;  and  these  songs,  which  make  the 
exiled  Californian  homesick,  were  written  while 
he  was  in  Europe.  In  him  also  is  a  great  long 
ing  to  reproduce  the  splendid  courage  and  the 
spiritual  power  of  the  early  navigators — Magel 
lan,  Drake,  Vancouver,  Hawkins,  and  all  that 
noble  crew — half  adventurers  and  half  pirates 
— who  solved  the  mystery  of  the  unknown 
Pacific.  He  believes  that  here  is  the  field 
for  the  future  poet  and  romance  writer,  rather 
than  in  the  past  of  the  Old  World,  which 
has  been  dug  over  until  all  its  freshness  is 
gone. 

Joaquin  does  not  care  to  talk  of  the  work  he 
has  done.  He  looks  forward  to  greater  and 
finer  work  in  the  future.  His  noblest  poems 
have  been  written  within  five  years.  One  is  on 
the  death  of  Tennyson,  the  other  on  Colum 
bus.  Either  would  serve  to  assure  fame  for  a 
poet.  On  returning  from  Alaska  two  years 
ago  he  long  felt  the  physical  effects  of  the  enor 
mous  strain  of  life  under  the  Arctic  Circle,  but 
his  mind  eventually  became  clearer  and  stronger, 
and  his  impressions  took  shape. 

When  he  talks  of  the  scenery  of  the  Far 
North  his  eye  lights  up  with  enthusiasm.  "  My 
[152] 


Joaquin  Miller 

old  loyalty  to  the  Sierras,"  he  says,  "  is  gone. 
Those  Northern  mountains  dwarf  our  Shasta 
and  our  Yosemite.  No  words  can  describe 
their  grandeur ;  it  weighs  on  the  soul.  Clothed 
in  perpetual  snow,  with  great  sabre  gashes  down 
their  sides,  they  give  one  the  impression  of  a 
tremendous  force  which  menaces  man  and 
makes  all  his  work  seem  puny  and  contempt 
ible.  The  world  has  no  scenery  like  that  which 
meets  the  traveller  on  the  way  to  the  Klondike. 
Then,  too,  the  coloring  of  the  mountains,  the 
effects  of  the  midnight  sun  on  fields  of  ice  and 
snow,  the  long  arctic  night — -these  are  things 
which  would  make  the  greatest  artist  in  words 
realize  how  poor  is  his  skill."  Joaquin  put  his 
impressions  of  the  Yukon  country  and  his  ex 
periences  as  a  prospector  on  the  Klondike  into  a 
lecture,  which  he  has  delivered  throughout  the 
East. 

After  this  talk  we  went  out  and  strolled  up 
the  hill  to  look  over  the  poet's  possessions.  In 
the  nearest  cottage  was  his  favorite  daughter, 
Miss  Maud  Miller.  Farther  up  the  hill,  in  the 
best  sheltered  spot,  is  the  prettiest  cottage — the 
home  of  the  poet's  mother.  He  calls  her  "  My 
Queen,"  and  for  her  everyone  else  must  give 
way.  This  love  and  reverence  for  his  mother 


American  Authors  &  ^fheir  Homes 

reveals  Miller's  best  traits — the  tenderness  of 
his  nature  and  the  kindness  which  has  survived 
many  harsh  experiences.  Though  over  eighty, 
the  old  lady  is  still  bright  in  mind  and  active  in 
body.  She  takes  a  keen  interest  in  current 
affairs,  and  talks  well.  In  her  pleasant  recep 
tion-room  is  the  art  treasure  of  the  Heights — a 
superb  portrait  of  John  C.  Fremont,  painted  by 
Jewett  in  1852.  It  shows  the  fine  eyes  of  the 
Pathfinder,  with  the  curve  of  the  eyebrow  that 
betokens  courage  and  will,  and  it  seems  to  me 
to  reveal  more  of  the  real  character  of  the  man 
than  any  other  picture.  It  was  painted  on  a 
tablecloth  of  one  of  the  Panama  steamers,  and 
its  genuineness  is  fully  attested. 

Everyone  on  the  Heights  has  a  separate 
dwelling-place  where  privacy  may  be  enjoyed. 
Joaquin  believes  in  personal  seclusion.  He 
thinks  that  the  world  loses  much  from  its  ten 
dency  to  gregariousness.  He  believes  that  a 
man  should  not  be  too  familiar  even  with  the 
members  of  his  own  family,  and  that  there  are 
times  when  solitude  is  a  necessity.  His  sys 
tem  may  seem  odd,  but  it  has  much  to  recom 
mend  it. 

Over  beyond  Miller's  cottage  is  a  trout-pond 
filled  with  pretty  fish,  and  farther  up  the  hill  a 
[154] 


Joaquin  Miller 

Doric  gateway  which  leads  to  the  higher  paths. 
Joaquin  has  demonstrated  on  this  steep  hillside 
how  many  beautiful  walks  one  may  make  by 
planting  a  few  trees.  The  lower  sides  of  the 
paths  are  walled  up  with  stone,  and  are  thus 
protected  from  washing  by  heavy  rains.  Far  up 
on  the  summit  of  the  hill  is  a  solid  stone  mauso 
leum  or  funeral  pyre,  eight  feet  high,  ten  feet 
long,  and  ten  feet  broad.  It  is  made  of  black 
flint  rock,  and  will  endure  for  ages.  The  poet 
has  left  instructions  that  his  body  shall  be  cre 
mated  upon  it,  and  the  ashes  flung  to  the  four 
winds  of  heaven.  Near  at  hand  is  a  huge 
bowlder  on  which  is  graven,  "  To  the  Un 
known."  Upon  the  summit  of  another  hill  is  a 
pyramidal  pile  of  rocks  dedicated  to  Browning, 
while  not  far  away  the  poet  hopes  to  erect  a 
monument  to  Fremont,  by  the  side  of  a  huge 
bowlder  which  marks  the  site  of  the  Pathfind 
er's  camp  when  he  passed  over  these  hills  in 
1843. 

Returning  from  the  summit,  one  is  impressed 
more  strongly  than  before  with  Miller's  success 
in  transforming  this  stony,  barren  hillside  into  a 
garden  of  roses  and  pleasant,  shaded  paths. 
Under  his  own  vines  and  olives  I  took  leave  of 
the  Poet  of  the  Sierras,  who  has  been  able  to 
[i55] 


American  Authors  &  Their  Homes 

put  his  yearning  for  beauty  into  practical  form 
and  to  make  an  ideal  home  on  this  Western 
shore,  where — 

"  The  bland 
Still  air  is  fresh  with  touch  of  wood  and  tide." 


[156] 


Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 
In  Lawrence  Park,  Bronxville,  New  York 


BY  MR.  STEDMAN 
[Born  in  l8jj  in  Hartford,  Conn.} 

Poems  Lyrical  and  Idyllic.      1 860. 

Poems.      [Complete  Edition.]      1874. 

Victorian  Poets.      1875. 

Hawthorne  and  Other  Poems.      1877- 

Lyrics  and  Idylls.      1879. 

Poets  of  America.      1885^ 

Library  of  American  Literature.      [Editor  of,  with  Miss  Hutchin- 

son.]     Eleven  vols.      1887-90. 
The  Nature  and  Elements  of  Poetry.      1892. 
Victorian  Anthology.      1895- 
Poems  Now  First  Collected.      1897. 
American  Anthology.      1901. 


XII 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 
In  Lawrence  Park,  Bronxville,  New  York 

ANYONE  who  looks   into  the  beautiful 
home  of  Mr.  Stedman  must  regard  it 
as  in  a  sense  a  literary  centre  of  New 
York.     This  was  eminently  true  when  he  dwelt 
in   Fifty-fourth  Street,  and    later    in    Thirtieth 
Street.     It  is  still  true  now  that  his  home  is  in 
Lawrence   Park,  Bronxville,  which   lies  a   few 
miles  north  of  the  city  confines  on  the  Harlem 
Railroad.      Before  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stedman  began 

D 

to  gather  their  literary  friends  about  them  many 
years  ago,  it  had  pleased  the  humor  of  Boston 
to  speed  its  arrows  of  wit  at  New  York  for  its 
pretensions'  to  establish  literary  circles  and  co 
teries.  But  when  literary  Boston  was  invited 
by  the  Stedmans  to  dinner,  the  satirical  arrows 
seemed  of  a  sudden  to  lose  their  edge. 

During  the  four  or  five  years  that  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Stedman  occupied  their  house  in  Fifty- 
fourth  Street,  New  York  acquired  a  distinct  lit 
erary  centre.  On  Sundays — their  evenings  at 
home — there  was  such  a  varied  assemblage  of 
guests  as  only  a  metropolis  can  bring  together. 
[i59] 


American  Authors   &  ^heir  Homes 

Not  only  authors  and  artists,  critics  and  profes 
sional  men,  but  such  of  fashion  as  really  pos 
sessed  culture,  found  their  way  there.  At  the 
weekly  dinners  were  to  be  met  the  distinguished 
foreigner,  the  latest  successful  novelist  or  young 
poet,  and  the  wittiest  and  most  beautiful  women. 
Since  the  formation  of  that  literary  centre  New 
York  has  made  good  its  claim  to  literary  su 
premacy.  Boston  meanwhile  has  fallen  to  the 
rear.  At  the  house  of  the  Stedmans  in  Law 
rence  Park,  a  literary  centre  still  exists,  and  at 
receptions  the  wise,  the  witty,  and  the  successful 
are  present. 

This  Lawrence  Park  home  is  a  fine  two-story 
structure,  architecturally  suggestive  of  the  man 
ors  of  the  well-to-do  forefathers.  It  is  situated 
in  the  centre  of  a  literary  and  artistic  colony. 
Lawrence  Park  comprises  ninety  acres,  and  the 
dozen  or  so  artists  and  writers  who  have  their 
homes  there  are  all  distinguished  in  their  kind. 
There  are  no  fences.  The  wide-rolling  lawn 
is  common  property. 

From  the  windows  of  this  twenty-roomed- 
dwelling  are  landscape  pictures  almost  without 
number.  The  balcony  from  the  second  floor 
looks  over  the  tree-tops  to  where  the  Convent  of 
St.  Joseph,  on  the  shore  of  the  Hudson,  miles 
[160] 


Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 

away,  lifts  its  towers  to  the  sky — a  sea  of  green 
in  summer,  a  vale  of  many  colors  in  autumn,  and 
a  hollow  of  leaden  frosted  twigs  in  winter. 
Lawrence  Park  is  a  colony  set  on  a  hill,  and  on 
the  crown  of  the  hill  stands  the  house  of  the 
Stedmans. 

Once  across  the  wide  lawn  and  broad  piazza 
and  within  the  ample  front  door,  the  sense  of 
light,  breadth,  and  comfort  irresistibly  takes 
hold  of  one.  The  feeling  is  that  the  place 
is  pleasantly  equipped  with  rarities  in  art 
and  literature.  The  furnishings  are  neither 
heavy  nor  gorgeous,  but  light,  warm  in  color, 
pleasing  in  outline,  and  above  all,  abundant  and 
serviceable.  The  reception  -  room  displays  a 
broad  staircase  to  the  floor  above,  with  doors 
leading  into  the  library,  dining-room,  and  poet's 
study. 

One  is  immediately  made  aware  by  the  most 
pleasing  devices  that  in  this  house  the  arts  and 
not  the  upholstery  are  called  upon  to  do  the 
honors.  These  admirable  results  are  due  al 
most  entirely  to  the  taste  and  skill  of  Mrs. 
Stedman,  who  possesses  a  genuine  artistic  in 
stinct  for  grouping  and  effect.  A  tour  of  the 
house  is  a  passing  in  review  of  trophies  won 
at  sales,  bits  picked  up  in  foreign  travel,  a  pur- 
[161] 


American  Authors  &  ^heir  Homes 

chase  now  and  then  from  some  choice  collection, 
either  of  glass  or  china,  prints  or  etchings. 

In  the  poet's  study  is  a  noted  portrait  of 
Miss  Fletcher,  the  author  of  "  Kismet  "  and 
"  Vestigia,"  painted  by  her  step-father,  Mr.  Eu 
gene  Benson.  Here  also  is  one  of  the  very 
earliest  of  Wyant's  paintings,  "  An  Irish  Bog," 
which  was  the  first  work  of  that  talented 
painter  sold  in  the  East.  Mr.  Stedman  bought 
it  when  the  artist  was  very  much  unknown. 
There  are  paintings  of  Poe  and  medallions  of 
Bayard  Taylor  and  Stedman  by  Donovan,  and 
mementoes  of  departed  authors  in  large  num 
bers. 

The  halls  and  walls  of  every  room  show 
treasures.  Among  the  paintings  are  "  A  Lion 
and  Lioness,"  by  George  Butler ;  Winslow 
Homer's  "  Voice  from  the  Cliff,"  with  the  in 
spiring  trio  of  faces  and  magnificent  sweep  of 
arms  of  women  ;  Longfellow's  "  Wayside  Inn," 
by  Bellows  ;  one  of  Bayard  Taylor's  aquarelles, 
and  a  sketch  by  Henry  Bacon.  And  of  books 
there  stands  a  legion  from  the  elect,  auto 
graphed  and  otherwise  made  sacred  by  ties  of 
friendship.  They  are  principally  poems,  in 
cluding  scarce  first  editions  collected  without 
bibliomania. 

[162] 


Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 

Those  who  loved  Eugene  Field  would  de 
light  in  the  little  pamphlet  of  original  poems 
written  and  illustrated  in  pen  and  ink  by  Field, 
and  sent  to  Stedman  with  the  most  friendly 
dedication.  The  two  men  were  good  friends 
during  Field's  life  and  this  Horace  of  Sabine 
Farm  never  forgot  the  kindly  service  Stedman 
did  him  in  securing  a  Boston  publisher  for  his 
first  volume. 

Of  a  different  shade  but  similar  texture  were 
Mr.  Stedman's  relations  with  Bayard  Taylor, 
George  H.  Boker,  Richard  Henry  Stoddard  and 
all  those  who  were  with  him  in  the  early  days. 
William  Dean  Howells  in  his  "  Impressions  of 
Literary  New  York "  touches  upon  the  time 
in  question  and  tells  how  he  found  Stedman. 
Says  Mr.  Howells  :  "  He  had  a  worldly  dash 
along  with  his  supermundane  gifts  which  took 
me  almost  as  much,  and  all  the  more  because 
I  could  see  that  he  valued  himself  nothing 
upon  it." 

Seemingly,  Mr.  Stedman's  life  lies  down  in 
Wall  Street,  where  his  banking-house  exists 
amid  the  hurrying  throng  of  money-makers  and 
the  excitement  of  the  Stock  Exchange.  Yet, 
either  by  nature  or  through  force  of  circum 
stances,  he  is  the  typical  literary  man  of  the 
[163] 


American  Authors   &  ^heir  Homes 

day.  He  is  the  man  of  his  epoch,  of  the  mo 
ment — of  the  very  latest  moment.  There  is 
that  in  his  make-up  which  gives  him  the  air  of 
constantly  pressing  the  button  which  puts  him 
in  relation  with  the  civilized  activities  of  the 
world. 

He  was  born  man  of  the  world  as  well  as 
poet,  with  a  sensitive  response  to  his  age  and 
surroundings  that  has  enabled  him  to  touch 
the  life  of  his  day  at  many  points.  He  owes  it 
to  an  equally  rare  endowment,  to  talent  for  lead 
ing  two  quite  separate  lives,  that  he  has  been 
enabled  to  maintain  his  social  life  free  from  the 
influences  of  his  career  as  an  active  business 
man.  The  broker  is  a  separate  and  distinct 
person  from  the  writer  and  poet.  The  two,  it 
is  true,  meet  as  one  on  friendly  terms  on  the 
street  or  at  the  club ;  but  it  is  within  the  four 
walls  of  the  poet's  house  that  his  true  life  is 
led. 

And  his  has  been  an  eventful  life.  While 
his  mother  and  stepfather  were  living  abroad, 
the  latter  being  Minister  to  Italy,  he  was  a  war 
correspondent  in  the  Civil  War,  which  inspired 
one  of  his  finest  poems,  "  How  Old  Brown 
Took  Harper's  Ferry."  Then  he  saw  how 
men  make  money,  and  supported  himself  as  a 
[164! 


Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 

stock-broker  and  banker.  If  every  writer  whom 
his  labors  have  placed  under  obligations  to  him 
should  send  a  violet  to  his  house,  it  would  be 
rilled  with  those  tributes. 

He  is  sixty-eight,  and  in  his  features,  pure 
as  those  of  a  Greek  sculptured  in  the  time 
of  Pericles,  there  are  marks  of  scarcely  two- 
thirds  as  many  years.  At  thirty,  his  blue 
eyes,  the  shade  of  which  has  an  Oriental 
warmth,  cannot  have  been  clearer  or  braver. 
The  asperities  of  life,  severe  trials,  exacting 
popularity  and  triumphs  arduously  attained,  have 
not  darkened  his  forehead ;  an  elevated  idea  or 
the  shadow  of  some  dream  is  always  reflected 
there. 

He  is  lithe  and  erect,  and  his  white  wide 
beard  is  Atlantean,  and  as  if  intended  to  sig 
nify  that  Stedman  shall  remain  eternally  young 
and  that  old  age  shall  always  seek  in  vain 
for  an  appearance  in  him.  Mr.  Stedman  is 
an  emblem  of  the  distinction  which  lies  in  the 
soul  of  all  poets.  He  is  a  visible  sign  that  the 
race  of  thinkers  and  the  race  of  men  of  action 
are  not  essentially  different,  but  one  and  the 
same. 

In  his  library,  the  walls  of  which  are  lined 
with  books,  paintings,  and  art  objects,  a  little 
[165] 


American  Authors  &  Their  Homes 

clock  on  the  mantel  rings  the  hour  with  a 
crystal  voice.  There  are  tables  covered  with 
books  and  papers.  There  are  letters  in  piles 
high  as  the  Tower  of  Babel  and  as  confused  in 
languages,  leaning  as  the  Tower  of  Pisa,  in  spirals 
as  the  Tower  of  Sidon — invitations  to  festivals, 
verses  of  a  score  of  good  poets,  requests  for  lit 
erary  advice,  communications  from  authors, 
artists,  publishers,  friends.  Mr.  Stedman  replies 
courteously,  with  poetic  unselfishness.  His  cor 
respondents  do  not  know  all  the  sacrifices  he 
makes  for  them.  He  renounces  his  heroes,  his 
thoughts,  his  dreams,  and  his  real  life  for 
them. 

Some  correspondents  wish  to  know  what  is 
the  most  direct  road  to  fame,  others  the  road 
to  wealth.  These  wish  that  he  would  teach 
them  his  art ;  others  ask  for  his  autograph. 
He  may  not  be  in  love  with  the  angels  of 
mechanical  progress.  Perhaps  he  prefers  the 
time  when  Michael  Angelo  carved  a  colossus 
out  of  a  block  of  stone,  and  wnen  Rembrandt 
scratched  his  sublime  etchings,  rather  than  the 
time  when  ingenious  processes  are  invented 
to  reproduce  masterpieces.  But  he  lives  in 
an  age  of  progress,  deserves  to  enjoy  its  ad 
vantages,  and  should  be  exonerated  from  the 
[166] 


Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 

duty  of  replying  to  letters.  The  visitors  ex 
claimed  : 

"  Why  do  you  not  let  your  secretary  reply  to 
letters,  or  use  a  printed  form,  or  simply  refuse 
to  reply,  or  announce  that  you  are  in  a  monas 
tery  impenetrable  to  correspondents  ?  "  "  Be 
cause,"  Mr.  Stedman  replies,  "  many  of  them 
are  letters  like  this,  and  this,  and  this."  He 
shows  such  as  a  king  would  answer  at  length 
in  his  own  handwriting. 

Among  the  books  is  a  copy  of  "  Vignettes  in 
Rhyme  "  by  Austin  Dobson,  edited  by  Stedman 
and  published  in  1880,  which  tells  a  pretty  tale. 
In  his  dedication  of  the  book  to  Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes,  Dobson  had  written  the  phrase  "made 
me  very  pleased  and  proud."  Stedman,  object 
ing  to  the  use  of  "  very "  before  a  participle, 
changed  the  phrase  to  "  made  me  proud  and 
very  happy,"  advised  Dobson  of  his  act,  and 
received  from  him  the  following  letter : 

DEAR  S. — The  error  is  allowed  ; 
'Tis  clear  I  can't  be  "  pleased  "  and  "  proud  "  ; 
So  if  it  give  your  scruples  ease, 
Let  me  be  "  proud  "  and  what  you  please. 
Indeed,  I'm  rather  glad  I  said  it ; 
It  shows  how  carefully  you  edit  ; 
And  if  I  break  the  head  of  Priscian, 
I  hope  you'll  always  be  physician, 
[167] 


American  Authors  &  rfheir  Homes 

Since  you  so  cleverly  can  cut 

A  plaster  for  his  occiput — 

Making  it  plain  how  close  you  follow, 

In  all  his  attributes,  Apollo, 

Who,  with  a  musical  degree, 

Like  Holmes,  was  also  an  M.D. 

To  these  lines  it  is  only  fair  to  add  verses 
from  Stedman  himself.  The  following  were 
written  as  another  stanza  to  "  The  Old  Picture 
Dealer"  in  Mr.  Samuel  P.  Avery's  copy  of 
"  Songs  and  Ballads  "  published  in  1884  for  the 
members  of  the  Book  Fellows  Club  : 

And  yet, — and  yet  might  time  decree 

That  Avery  should  my  fame  restore, 
That  hovering  shade  would  smile  to  see 

His  Virgin  shrined  as  ne'er  before  ! 
Then,  for  one  votary  at  my  throne, 

The  world  should  worship  in  his  stead, 
And  with  its  proffered  gold  atone 

For  long  neglect  through  centuries  sped. 

Mr.  Stedman  has  augmented  his  copy  of 
"  The  Poets  of  America  "  by  the  insertion  of 
portraits  and  autographs  of  the  poets  mentioned 
in  the  work.  "  It  is  not  a  hand-book,"  he  says; 
"  I  wrote  it  to  set  forth  my  ideas  of  poetry.  It 
was  ever  my  wish  to  express  my  opinions  in 
this  way,  if  I  became  independent.  I  wrote 
[168] 


passages  of  the  '  Victorian  Poets '  while  in 
college." 

"  What  is  your  masterpiece  ?  "  he  was  asked. 
"  It  is  not  yet  written,"  he  replied.  "  I  trust  it 
will  come  one  day.  But  I  never  write  a  poem, 
a  poem  writes  me." 

The  charm  of  his  conversation  is  irresistible. 
His  voice  is  rhymic  and  well  tuned  ;  his  eyes, 
even  in  the  fixity  which  his  introspective  moods 
provoke,  are  expressive  of  the  most  delicate 
shades  of  thought.  At  the  Authors'  Club  or  at 
his  Sunday  evening  reunions  young  men  gather 
around  him. 

"  Never  was  attack  more  unjust  than  Hannay's 
on  Stoddard  about  Poe,"  Mr.  Stedman  said,  con 
tinuing  the  conversation.  "  You  see,"  he  said, 
as  he  opened  a  little  book,  "  Hannay  quotes  a 
line,  'His.  faults  were  many,  his  virtues  few.' 
Now  listen  to  Stoddard's  '  Miserrimus.'  Mr. 
Stedman  recited  from  memory  : 

He  has  passed  away 
From  a  world  of  strife. 
Fighting  the  wars  of  Time  and  Life. 
The  leaves  will  fall  when  the  winds  are  loud 
And  the  snows  of  winter  will  weave  his  shroud. 
But  he  will  never,  ah,  never  know, 

Anything  more 

Of  leaves  or  snow. 
[169] 


American  Authors   &  ^heir  Homes 

The  summer  tide 

Of  his  life  was  past, 
And  his  hopes  were  fading,  falling  fast. 
His  faults  were  many,  his  virtues  few, 
A  tempest  with  flecks  of  Heaven's  blue. 
He  might  have  soared  to  the  gates  of  light, 

But  he  built  his  nest 

With  the  birds  of  night. 

"  How  beautiful  it  is  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  The 
young  men  of  to-day  do  not  read  Stoddard 
enough.  There  are  not  five  men  able  to  write 
blank  verse  like  his.  Writing  blank  verse  is 
like  standing  nude.  Everybody  may  do  it,  but 
few  may  stand  the  test.  Do  you  remember 
the  lines : 

Where  wild  Laconia  juts  into  the  sea 

The  fisher  Diotimus  had  his  home. 

Between  the  waters  and  the  woods  it  stood, 

A  wattled  hut,  whose  floor  was  strewn  with  leaves 

And  crisp,  dry  seaweed  ;  when  the  tide  came  in, 

The  surf  ran  up  the  beach  even  to  the  door. 

"  It  is  4  The  Fisher  and  Charon  '  which  made 
me  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  Stoddard,"  said 
he  as  he  took  from  a  shelf  a  copy  of  "  The 
Songs  of  Summer."  Several  of  its  pages  were 
dog-eared.  The  book  had  been  often  read. 
"  It  is  marvellous,"  he  said,  "  that  a  poet  wrote 
[170] 


Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 

thus  in  New  York  forty  years  ago.  If  Stod- 
dard  had  been  in  Cambridge  among  those  who 
were  advertised,  he  would  have  been  instantly 
recognized  as  one  of  the  world's  poets.  Lin- 
ton  and  Stoddard  —  have  you  ever  seen  them 
together  ?  Linton  with  his  Christ-like  forehead, 
and  Stoddard  with  his  large  eyes  that  are  full  of 
light  and  wit.  They  are  like  two  ancient  kings 
of  poetry  and  romance." 

Mr.  Stedman,  by  the  way,  has  a  Chamber  of 
Horrors  where  are  packed  books  of  mediocre 
poems.  It  would  be  amusing  to  visit  it,  but 
it  would  be  lamentable  if  his  humor  changed. 
"  Do  you  like  the  new  poets  ? "  he  was  asked. 
"  The  average  of  art  in  modern  poems,"  he 
replied,  "  is  higher  than  that  of  imagination. 
Many  persons  have  mastered  the  technique  of 
poetry.  .1  suppose  that  if  there  were  clay  in 
every  road-bank  there  would  be  as  many  good 
sculptors  as  there  are  good  poets.  Only  I  am 
convinced  that  the  true  poet  is  not  made  by 
study.  He  is  poet  born  and  he  lisps  in  numbers." 

The  conversation  turned  to  the  liberality  of 
Mr.  Stedman's  human  sympathies,  and  Mr. 
Stedman  said  :  "  I  have  lived  in  Bohemia.  The 
idea  that  I  was  born  with  a  silver  spoon  in  my 
mouth  is  a  false  one.  My  relatives  were  well 
[171] 


American  Authors   &  Tke/r  Homes 

situated,  but  I  had  to  shift  for  myself  at  fifteen. 
At  thirty  I  went  into  the  Stock  Exchange 
because  I  needed  to  be  independent  in  order 
to  write  and  study.  A  school-teacher  or  a 
newspaper  man  has  not  my  advantage  for  lit 
erary  work,  because  his  constant  occupation  is 
of  the  same  nature  as  the  one  he  desires.  My 
quotidian  five  hours  at  the  Exchange  are  hours 
of  card  or  chess  playing.  To  turn  from  this 
to  literature  is  relaxation.  I  could  not  write 
when  I  was  managing  editor." 

Referring  to  his  "  Library  of  American  Lit 
erature  "  he  said  American  literature  was  dis 
tinctively  American  and  in  a  more  promising 
condition  now  than  ever. 


[172] 


Thomas  Nelson  Page 
In  Washington^  D.  C. 


BY  MR.    PAGE 

Born  in  l8^J  in  Oakland,  Va. 


In  Ole  Virginia.      1887. 

Two  Little  Confederates.      1888. 

Meh  Lady.      1893. 

Pastime  Stories.      1894. 

Polly  :  A  Christmas  Recollection.      1894. 

Unc'  Edinburgh.      1895. 

The  Old  Gentleman  of  the  Black  Stock.      1897. 

Social  Life  in  Old  Virginia  Before  the  War.      1897. 

Red  Rock.      1898. 

Two  Prisoners.      1898. 


XIII 

Thomas  Nelson  Page 
In  Washington^  D.  C. 

MR.  PAGE  has  known  poverty,  his 
family  having  been  ruined  by  the 
Civil  War.  In  consequence  he  has 
never  lost  sympathy  with  struggling  humanity, 
nor  interest  in  the  affairs  of  those  less  fortunate 
than  himself,  although  he  to-day  occupies  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  houses  in  Washington,  and 
is,  of  course,  to  be  counted  among  the  most 
successful  American  writers. 

His  house,  which  is  in  the  Colonial  style  of 
architecture,  stands  in  the  northwestern  section 
of  the  city,  the  portion  of  most  rapid  growth  and 
also  of  greatest  fashion.  It  is  difficult  to  believe 
that  the  land  upon  which  it  stands  was  only  a 
few  years  ago  still  unreclaimed  from  the  general 
wilderness  of  vacant  lots  and  rural  ponds. 

His  workshop,  or  "  den,"  is  on  the  top  floor, 
so  that  in  order  to  reach  him  the  writer  had  to 
climb  three  long  flights  of  stairs.  It  was,  how 
ever,  interesting  climbing.  Part  of  the  way  up 
the  wall  is  draped  with  beautiful  tapestries,  and 
then  come  a  number  of  framed  originals  of  the 
[i75] 


American  Authors   &  rfheir  Homes 

illustrations  for  his  earliest  stories — "  Marse 
Chan,"  «  Meh  Lady,"  and  "  Edinburgh  Drown 
ing."  On  the  first  landing  hangs  a  proof  of 
Mr.  C.  D.  Gibson's  pen-and-ink  cover  design 
for  "  Soldiers  of  Fortune,"  and  through  the 
doorway  one  catches  a  glimpse  of  the  library, 
with  its  big,  easy  chairs  and  long  ranges  of 
books.  The  vision  is  tempting,  but  the  pleas 
ure  must  be  deferred. 

Mr.  Page  stands  in  the  doorway  waiting  to 
receive  his  guest,  who  enters  the  house  with 
somewhat  of  the  deprecating  feeling  that  one 
necessarily  experiences  in  bearding  a  celebrity 
in  his  den ;  but  before  his  old-fashioned  South 
ern  welcome  all  doubts  of  impertinence  vanish. 
In  fact,  before  leaving,  the  stranger  has  reached 
the  pleasant  conviction  that  it  is  he,  and  not  Mr. 
Page,  who  is  conferring  the  favor.  Great  is 
the  power  of  hospitality  ! 

One  glance  shows  that  the  room  is  plain,  al 
most  severe.  It  is  evidently  the  abode  of  a 
worker,  but  of  just  what  kind  an  unadvised 
stranger  might  be  puzzled  to  tell.  The  book 
shelves  which  line  the  walls  are  well  filled,  but 
it  is  a  motley  collection.  Thackeray,  Dickens, 
Scott,  Congressional  Reports  of  the  Ku-Klux 
Trials,  history — all  find  a  place.  A  number  of 


T^homas  Nelson  Page 

volumes  of  a  collection  of  Mr.  Page's  stories  are 
unceremoniously  displaced  from  a  chair  to  make 
room  for  their  author  and  creator.  There 
seems  a  certain  fitness  in  this,  although  one 
cannot  help  thinking  that  his  chivalry  would 
not  have  allowed  him  to  do  it,  had  he  stopped 
to  remember  the  ladies  within  their  pages. 

Somehow  the  usual  stock  of  "  interview " 
questions  with  which  the  writer  was  primed  did 
not  get  themselves  asked.  Mr.  Page  is,  when 
the  spirit  moves  him,  a  talkative  man,  and  be 
fore  long  was  engaged  in  an  animated  discussion 
of  the  principles  of  art,  that,  in  catholic  impar 
tiality,  covered  the  fields  of  literature,  painting, 
and  sculpture,  and  the  entire  range  of  history. 
The  chair  by  right  belonging  to  "  Pastime  Stor 
ies  "  was  abandoned,  and  the  host  took  to  pac 
ing  the  ftoor,  stopping  now  and  then  to  listen 
respectfully  to  opposing  arguments. 

He  is  a  medium-sized  man,  quick  and  decided 
in  movement,  with  strongly  marked  features. 
His  accent  distinctly  denotes  the  Virginian,  but 
not  in  a  disagreeably  pronounced  manner.  It  is 
evident  "that  he  is  a  keen  observer.  On  first 
meeting  a  stranger,  he  seems  to  seek  to  take 
him  in  at  one  glance ;  then  for  some  time  he 
watches  closely  for  the  slight,  but  important, 
[i77] 


American  Authors  &  T'kefr  Homes 

indications  of  character  that  are  revealed  in 
manner  and  expression.  After  gaining  an  esti 
mate,  however,  of  his  interlocutor,  he  lays  him 
aside,  so  to  speak,  as  an  artist  his  sketch,  for 
future  leisurely  amplification. 

In  certain  respects  Mr.  Page  is  distinctly  old- 
fashioned  ;  the  simple,  direct  ideas  of  Scott, 
Dickens,  and  Thackeray  regarding  honor  and 
morality  satisfy  him  entirely ;  the  modern 
"  problem "  novel  has  no  attraction  for  him. 
Even  in  conversation  he  is  a  good  deal  of  an 
idealist.  For  this  reason  he  turns  for  a  demon 
stration  of  his  views  to  classic  art,  with  its  ex 
position  of  the  type,  the  principle,  rather  than 
to  modern  art,  with  its  dominant  individualism. 
An  engraving  of  Cabanel's  "  Birth  of  Venus  " 
hangs  above  his  fireplace,  and  even  this  beauti 
ful  conception  came  in  for  his  criticism  as  the 
glorification  of  a  particularly  beautiful  woman,  the 
most  beautiful  in  Paris,  rather  than  a  presentation 
of  the  idea  of  beauty  expressed  in  the  human  form. 
Cover  up  the  hovering  cupids,  he  urged,  shut 
out  the  poetic  idea,  leaving  only  Venus,  and  we 
see  how  much  of  the  carnal  is  present. 

As  a  natural  corollary  to  these  views  springs 
disapproval  of  the  methods  of  realism.  It  is 
not  necessary,  he  argues,  even  were  it  possible, 


Thomas  Nelson  Page 

to  put  us  in  the  exact  position  of  the  tempted 
one,  as  the  realists  strive  to  do.  It  is  sufficient 
that  we  grasp  the  situation  intellectually,  with 
out  knowledge  of  all  the  details. 

As  an  ending  to  this  somewhat  abstruse  dis 
cussion  came  the  characteristically  modest  re 
mark  :  "  Of  course  I  realize  that  I  don't  really 
know  a  thing  about  what  I'm  talking  about ;  I 
am  only  giving  a  personal  opinion."  There 
after  dogmatic  assertion  of  one's  views  had 
somewhat  lost  its  charm. 

There  are  a  number  of  very  interesting  ar 
ticles  in  the  workshop  of  the  author  of  "  In 
Ole  Virginia,"  among  others  an  odd-looking 
pen-rack,  which  it  seems  was  originally  a  cav 
alry  horse-bit,  with  the  letters  U.  S.  on  it, 
captured  at  Bull  Run,  and  thereafter  used 
throughout-  the  war  by  his  father,  and  a  bat 
tered  army-chest,  which  was  also  in  the  pos 
session  of  his  father,  a  major  in  the  Confederate 
Army.  As  tiles  for  the  facing  of  the  fireplace 
serve  the  electrotype  plates  of  his  first  book  of 
stories,  the  ones  that  made  him  famous. 

The  object,  however,  from  which  he  seems 

to  derive  the  greatest   diversion   is  a    battered 

green   bronze    head,   whose   former  home  was 

the  bed  of  Father  Tiber.     As  he  himself  was 

[179] 


American  Authors  &  ^heir  Homes 

"  taken  in  "  by  this  "  antique,"  he  hugely  en 
joys  repeating  the  process  on  unwary  visitors  ; 
the  only  adequate  safeguard  is  the  knowledge  of 
an  expert  or  complete  ignorance ;  a  little  knowl 
edge  is  a  dangerous  thing.  Carefully,  tenderly 
he  lifts  down  this  bronze  caryatid  head,  and 
hands  it  to  his  unsuspecting  victim.  "  Now, 
how  many  centuries  old  do  you  think  this  is  ?  " 
he  asks,  as  a  child  seeking  information  ;  "  would 
you  place  it  before  the  Christian  era  ?  "  You 
have  been  in  Rome,  and  the  temptation  is  too 
strong.  You  are  not  quite  certain,  but,  ahem  ! 
the  treatment  of  the  head  is  distinctly  pagan, 
especially  the  hair ;  it  can  hardly  be  later  than 
the  age  of  Marcus  Aurelius.  Mr.  Page  looks 
thankful  for  the  information,  naively  remarking, 
however,  that  it  is  strange  how  authorities  dif 
fer,  the  great  experts  Lanciani  and  Castellani 
having  said  on  seeing  the  head  :  "  It  ees  gude  ; 
but  it  ees  not  olt,  feefteen  year,  perhaps."  Yes, 
it  is  strange  how  authorities  differ. 

Those  who  imagine  that  because  an  author's 
style  is  easy  and  flowing  the  amount  of  labor 
put  upon  his  works  has  therefore  been  small 
should  see  the  numerous  bundles  of  manuscript 
in  Mr.  Page's  study  marked  variously — Orig 
inal  Draft  of  Red  Rock,  Discarded  Manuscript 
[180] 


tfhomas  Nelson  Page 

of  Red  Rock,  Red  Rock  Rewritten,  etc.  This 
story,  which  ran  through  Scribner's  Magazine, 
had,  it  seems,  been  a  long  time  in  the  making, 
about  three  years,  including  idle  months.  After 
writing  the  first  cast,  he  came  to  the  conclus 
ion  that  politics  had  been  allowed  to  play  too 
prominent  a  part,  and  to  rectify  this  fault  the 
entire  book  was  rewritten  in  shorter  form.  No 
amount  of  pains  is  spared  by  him  to  bring  his 
work  to  perfection. 

Interesting  in  connection  with  this  subject 
is  his  account  of  methods  pursued  while  giving 
public  readings.  In  accordance  with  his  theory 
that  never  was  story  written  not  permitting  of 
advantageous  shortening,  he  would  carefully 
watch  for  signs  of  flagging  interest  on  the  part 
of  audiences,  and  then  immediately  skip  to  a 
more  interesting  part,  marking  the  offending 
paragraphs  for  future  elimination.  His  pub 
lished  volumes  have  profited  by  this  heroic 
surgical  procedure. 

At  last  curiosity  about  the  library  was  to  be 
satisfied ;  the  two  left  the  study  and  descended 
to  the  first  floor.  On  entering  the  vast  room  a 
book-lover  gives  an  involuntary  gasp  of  delight. 
Everything,  apparently,  necessary  to  happiness 
is  in  sight — writing  -  table,  easy  -  chairs,  drop- 
[181] 


American  Authors  &  ^heir  Homes 

lights,  and,  above  all,  books  in  regiments  of 
yellow,  red,  and  white.  In  this  room  it  seems 
perfect  contentment  should  be  found  if  any 
where.  Yet  in  answer  to  a  remark  that  from 
such  beautiful  surroundings  one  should  draw 
inspiration,  Mr.  Page  observed  that  comfort 
may  serve  but  to  lull  the  soul  to  sleep.  "  I 
often  say,"  he  added,  "  that  whenever  the  time 
comes  when  one  poses  as  a  successful  man,  on 
that  day  every  spark  in  him  that  is  worth  any 
thing  has  gone  out.  A  man  must  keep  in  touch 
and  sympathy  with  life,  and  draw  inspiration 
from  what  is  going  on  about  him,  not  from 
his  material  surroundings." 

To  nearly  all  of  us  some  one  author  has 
come  in  early  youth  as  a  revealer  of  the  won 
derful,  inexhaustible  field  of  romance,  casting 
over  us  an  enchanted  spell  from  which  we 
have  never  afterward  escaped.  To  some  it 
has  been  Dumas,  to  others  Victor  Hugo.  The 
necromancer  of  Mr.  Page's  boyhood  days  was 
Scott.  To  him  the  name  of  the  great  writer 
of  Abbotsford  is  one  to  conjure  with,  to 
call  up  delicious  memories  of  lazy  sunny  days 
in  Virginia  under  the  trees,  or  cold  winter 
nights  by  the  fire  when  he  pored  over  the 
pages  of  "Kenilworth"  or  "  Quentin  Dur- 
[182] 


Thomas  Nelson  Page 

ward  "   by  the  fitful  light  of  a  pine   knot,  to 
save  the  cost  of  candles. 

It  is  but  natural,  therefore,  that  he  should  to 
day  cherish  as  his  most  precious  possession  a 
small  battered  copy  of  Cowper's  poems  contain 
ing  on  the  fly-leaf  a  page  of  French  in  Sir  Wal 
ter's  own  handwriting.  As  he  took  down  the 
quaint  old  book,  whose  cover  is  threatening  to 
fall  apart,  his  face  fairly  shone.  Comparatively 
unmoved  he  had  shown  other  treasures — a  book 
from  the  library  of  Boswell,  Wordsworth's  copy 
of  Landor's  poems,  containing  original  manu 
script  poems  by  Landor  to  Wordsworth,  all 
sank  into  insignificance  beside  the  volume  which 
Scott  had  once  held  in  his  hands. 

In  his  treatment  of  Virginia  and  her  people 
Mr.  Page  has,  consciously  or  unconsciously, 
followed  the.  methods  of  the  great  Scotchman — 
before  commencing  to  write  he  steeped  himself 
in  the  traditions  of  the  people,  living  among 
them  and  learning  to  know  them  intimately  at 
first  hand.  Again  like  Scott,  his  literary  career 
at  the  start  was  accidental.  In  fact,  it  is  hardly 
correct  to  speak  of  the  start  of  his  literary  "  ca 
reer  "  at  all,  as  not  for  years  after  the  publica 
tion  of  "  Marse  Chan "  did  he  take  the  final 
plunge  and  definitely  abandon  law  for  literature. 
[I83J 


American  Authors  &  ^flieir  Homes 

He  simply  allowed  himself  to  drift  with  open 
eyes  from  one  profession  into  the  other,  until  at 
last  the  time  came  when  he  had  argued  his  last 
case  and  received  his  last  fee.  The  law,  as 
Blackstone  observed,  is  a  jealous  mistress,  and 
in  Mr.  Page's  case  this  is  freshly  illustrated,  for 
he  is  at  present  turning  his  attention  to  the  study 
of  international  law,  in  which,  he  considers,  lie 
great  opportunities. 

The  popular  author  is  never  left  long  unmo 
lested.  Even  though  possessing  agility  in  avoid 
ing  reporters  acquired  by  long  practice,  it  is  im 
possible  to  escape  the  United  States  mail ;  letters 
are  no  respecters  of  persons — they  force  them 
selves  into  a  man's  house  and  upon  his  attention. 
On  the  present  occasion  a  large,  official-looking 
document  arrived  to  claim  Mr.  Page's  notice, 
together  with  several  others  of  more  modest 
appearance.  The  large  envelope,  it  turns  out, 
contained  a  voluminous  "original"  manuscript, 
which  the  author  sent  for  "  consideration  and 
criticism."  The  mere  sight  thereof  made  one 
appreciate  anew  the  inestimable  advantages  of 
obscurity.  One  of  the  smaller  envelopes  was 
addressed  in  this  fashion : 

Thomas  Nelson 
Page  of  the  Washington  Post. 
[184] 


This  peculiar  superscription,  however,  was 
made  clear  by  perusal  of  the  letter.  The  writer 
proceeded  to  state  that  he  had  had  a  brother  by 
the  name  of  Thompson  Neilson,  who  had  emi 
grated  with  him  to  this  country  from  Sweden, 
but  of  whom  he  had  since  lost  track.  Seeing 
Mr.  Page's  poem  apropos  of  the  Maine  disaster, 
entitled  "  The  Dragon  of  the  Sea,"  in  The 
Washington  Post^  he  had  thought  that  perhaps  at 
last  his  search  might  prove  successful.  The 
grammar  and  spelling  of  the  letter  were  at  the 
least  irregular,  but  its  naivete  and  simple  trust 
fulness  were  touching.  "  I  was  offel  glad  when 
I  seen  your  name,"  it  closed ;  "  let  me  know 
from  you.  I  was  glad  if  you  was  my  brother." 

"  There,  I  shall  write  that  man  the  nicest 
letter  I  know  how,"  said  Mr.  Page,  as  he  laid 
the  letter  away  for  future  use,  with  quite  broth 
erly  tenderness.  It  was  evident  that  the  inci 
dent  had  impressed  him.  The  exact  meaning 
of  the  line,  "  Page  of  the  Washington  Post," 
we  were  forced  to  leave  undetermined. 

As  the  two  men  descended  the  stairway  one 
of  them  was  reminded  of  Robert  Browning's 
"  Duchess  "  when  the  Duke  points  out  his  treas 
ures  to  his  parting  guest — here  a  landscape, 
yonder  an  old  Sedan  chair,  and  again  a  Lapland 
[185] 


American  Authors   &  rfheir  Homes 

bride's  side-saddle,  transformed  into  a  hall  chair 
by  the  simple  addition  of  legs.  The  last  curi 
osity  on  view  was  an  old-fashioned  grinning 
negro  who  was  busily  cutting  the  grass  in  front 
of  the  house.  On  observing  that  he  was  the 
object  of  our  conversation  he  grinned  approval. 
"  Jack  "  had,  it  seems,  been  employed  as  hod- 
carrier  during  the  construction  of  Mr.  Page's 
house  several  years  previous.  Fortunately  for 
Jack,  in  a  moment  of  absent-mindedness,  he 
had  fallen  from  the  second  story  and  lit  on  his 
head.  This  member  had  saved  his  life  and  he 
had  then  been  permanently  retained  as  servant, 
thus  proving,  as  Mr.  Page  explained,  that  he 
had  fallen  on  his  feet,  after  all. 


[186] 


F.  Hopkinson   Smith 

In  East  Thirty-fourth  Street,  New  York 


BY  MR.  SMITH 

Born  in  1838  in  Baltimore 

Well-worn  Roads  in  Spain,  Holland,  and  Italy.      1 886. 

A  White  Umbrella  in  Mexico.      1889. 

Colonel  Carter  of  Carterville.      1891. 

A  Day  at  Laguerre's,  and  Other  Days.      1892. 

A  Gentleman  Vagabond  and  Some  Others.      1895. 

Tom  Grogan.      1896. 

Gondola  Days.      1897. 

Venice  of  To-day.      1896-98. 

Caleb  West,  Master  Diver.      1898. 


XIV 

F.  Hopkinson   Smith 
In  East  thirty-fourth  Street^  New  York 

ON  the  slope  of  the  hill  between  Lex 
ington  and  Third  Avenues  and  on  the 
south  side  of  Thirty  -  fourth  Street 
stands  a  house  which  may  be  distinguished  from 
its  fellows  by  a  studio  window  rising  above  its 
roof.  If  on  a  winter's  evening  a  ruddy  light 
warms  this  particular  window,  making  of  it  an 
illuminated  square  in  the  surrounding  darkness, 
one  may  assume  almost  with  certainty  that  its 
owner,  Mr.  F.  Hopkinson  Smith,  is  entertain 
ing  some  of  his  friends  with  his  very  newest 
story  or  otherwise  dispensing  his  hospitality. 

For  twenty  years  this  house  has  been  the 
New  York  home  of  the  artist-author,  and  the 
room  at  the  top  on  evenings  and  Sunday  after 
noons  has  been  the  pleasant  resort  of  many  men 
distinguished  in  literary  and  art  work.  The  fire 
place,  which  casts  a  red  glow  on  book-shelves 
and  pictured  walls,  on  easels  and  easy-chairs,  is 
rimmed  by  a  cool  blue  border  of  tiles,  a  sou 
venir  of  a  club  of  small  membership  and  unlim-- 
ited  good-fellowship  which  left  its  impress  on 
[189] 


American  Authors  &  T'heir  Homes 

the  magazines  and  on  the  hearts  of  the  people 
of  more  than  a  decade  ago. 

Here  are  the  loving  tributes  of  hands  that  are 
cold  as  well  as  of  hands  still  warm  with  work 
—  a  Reinhart,  a  Quartley,  a  Sarony  —  among 
tiles  by  Abbey,  Chase,  Wier,  Swain  Gifford,  and 
others.  A  portrait  of  Elihu  Vedder  looks  down 
from  one  side  of  the  chimney-piece  and  the  face 
of  Mark  Twain  from  the  other,  and  a  conspic 
uous  place  on  the  wall  is  occupied  by  a  crayon 
portrait  of  Ned  Holland  in  the  character  of  Col 
onel  Carter.  This  studio  is  a  resting-place  rather 
than  a  workshop,  for  few  pictures  have  been 
painted  in  it,  while  many  collections  from  afield 
and  abroad  have  halted  here  for  a  critical  exam 
ination  and  a  slight  retouching  on  their  way  to 
the  exhibition  room. 

Crayons  and  water-colors  are  seen  here  and 
there  to  line  the  stairway  as  we  descend  into  the 
body  of  this  house  we  have  so  burglariously  entered, 
and  sunny  bits  of  Venice  and  Spain  hang  on  the 
walls  of  the  family  rooms  over  against  the  mill- 
sails  of  Holland  and  the  minarets  of  the  Turk. 
In  the  dining-room  is  a  portrait  of  Francis  Hop- 
kinson,  the  Signer,  great-grandfather  of  Francis 
Hopkinson  Smith.  There  is  a  striking  absence 
on  every  hand  of  souvenirs  of  travel,  such  as  are 
[190! 


F.  Hopkinson  Smith 

collected  by  the  ordinary  tourist.  Mr.  Smith 
himself,  in  his  pursuit  of  studies  in  color  and  in 
character,  is  in  too  deadly  earnest  to  be  turned 
aside  after  vases  or  idols,  and  the  other  mem 
bers  of  his  family  are  never  going  abroad  for 
the  last  time  and  would  as  soon  think  of  carry 
ing  souvenirs  of  New  York  to  the  banks  of  the 
Bosporus. 

If,  however,  there  is  a  noticeable  absence  of 
curios,  there  is  a  suggestive  prevalence  of  open 
desks  by  sunny  windows,  and  yet  there  is  not  a 
room  in  this  house,  not  even  the  den  at  the  top, 
not  a  desk  or  a  chair,  that  can  be  particularly 
identified  with  the  production  of  one  of  Mr. 
Smith's  books.  His  workshop  is  where  he 
finds  an  hour's  release  from  the  business  of  the 
day,  and  his  power  of  concentration  is  such  and 
his  literary  work  is  mapped  out  with  such  ad 
mirable  system  that  he  can  utilize  that  hour  to 
as  good  advantage  as  if  it  occurred  in  the  middle 
of  an  undisturbed  morning  devoted  to  authorship. 

The  leisure  hour  may  be  the  hour  before  din 
ner,  the  hour  before  a  train,  or  four  weeks  of 
waiting  in  Constantinople,  as  once  occurred,  for 
permission  to  set  up  his  easel.  More  often  this 
opportunity  for  literary  work  occurs  at  his  busi 
ness  office  near  Wall  Street,  where  Mr.  Smith 
[191] 


American  Authors  &  tfheir  Homes 

goes  daily  when  in  this  city,  and  where  indeed 
much  of  his  writing  has  been  done  in  a  little 
dingy  private  office,  surrounded  by  specimens  of 
granite  and  samples  of  cement.  Whatever  Mr. 
Smith  does  he  does  with  the  enthusiasm  of  a 
boy,  and  with  an  indifference  to  his  surround 
ings  that  makes  it  possible  to  believe  that,  if 
necessary,  he  could  write  his  books  as  he  paints 
his  pictures,  seated  on  a  camp-stool  in  the  street 
surrounded  by  a  chattering  crowd. 

Although  born  and  reared  in  Baltimore,  Mr. 
Smith  suggests  the  New  Englander  rather  than 
the  Southerner.  Even  New  York  has  failed  to 
assimilate  his  restless  personality,  and  among 
strangers  he  would  be  taken  for  a  Yankee  from 
Boston  or  a  "hustler"  from  Chicago.  His 
capacity  for  work  is  unlimited,  and  he  never 
thinks  of  dropping  one  line  of  work  because 
taking  up  another,  but  with  increasing  facility 
he  exacts  from  himself  an  increase  of  output. 
Since  he  has  become  an  author,  a  lecturer,  and 
a  reader  of  his  own  works,  instead  of  showing  a 
half-dozen  pictures  at  the  annual  exhibition  of 
the  Water  Color  Society,  as  formerly,  he  makes 
a  yearly  exhibition  of  his  own,  going  to  Venice, 
Constantinople,  and  Holland  for  his  subjects. 
The  secret  of  his  accomplishing  so  much  lies 
1 192] 


F.  Hopkinson  Smith 

always  in  the  perfect  system  that  governs  his 
work.  His  manuscripts  are  mapped  out  after  a 
method  all  his  own  in  skeleton  chapters  in  blank- 
books  ruled  for  the  purpose.  He  always  knows 
what  the  ending  will  be  before  he  begins  a  story, 
and  business  method  lies  behind  every  pen  stroke. 

In  short,  he  writes  a  book  as  he  paints  a 
picture  or  builds  a  light-house :  a  little  plotting 
with  charcoal,  a  rectifying  of  lines  with  the 
brush,  and  then  the  floating  on  of  color.  In 
the  old  days  it  was  a  bucketful  of  water  and  a 
flooding  of  the  japanned  box  to  wash  away  im 
purities  and  traces  of  body  color,  hard  work  by 
day  and  exhaustion  at  night.  Mr.  Smith  will 
never  outgrow  his  boyish  enthusiasm  for  the 
picturesque  in  nature  or  in  character.  In  this 
respect  the  years  have  wrought  no  change  in 
him. 

In  the  Tile  Club  days,  when  he  paid  his  first 
visit  to  Cold  Spring  Harbor  on  Long  Island, 
having  arrived  by  stage  after  dark,  the  writer  took 
him  on  the  water  in  the  moonlight.  Arthur 
Quartley  and  Stanley  Reinhart  were  in  the  boat. 
There  were  stars  above  and  stars  below,  and 
trailing  phosphorus  and  rocking  schooners 
against  velvet-black  masses  of  foliage  and  shad 
ow,  and,  as  we  come  out  from  under  the  great 
1 193] 


American  Authors  &  T'heir  Homes 

willows,  our  new  arrival  stood  up  in  the  boat 
and  announced  to  the  land  and  the  water  in  a 
fine  burst  of  enthusiasm :  "  I'll  let  you  know 
I'm  here  in  the  morning." 

In  those  days  it  was  a  favorite  assertion  of 
his  that  it  required  two  men  to  paint  a  picture — 
one  to  do  the  work  and  the  other  to  club  off 
the  artist  when  it  was  done.  Perhaps  he  was 
conscious  that  he  existed  in  a  sort  of  dual  per 
sonality  for  the  carrying  out  of  this  very  prin 
ciple,  having  Francis  H.  Smith,  the  business 
man,  always  at  the  elbow  of  F.  Hopkinson 
Smith,  the  artist.  So  the  sentences  of  the  au 
thor  are  never  wiggled  or  pottered  over  until 
their  virility  and  freshness  are  destroyed  by 
over-elaboration. 

The  development  of  the  writer  after  fifty, 
in  which  vocation  Mr.  Smith  has  achieved  his 
best  success,  may  at  first  seem  to  indicate  a 
misconception  of  his  talent  at  the  outset  of  his 
career.  May  it  not,  fortunately  for  himself  and 
for  his  admirers,  have  been  an  evolution  of  ri 
pening  along  unconsciously  methodical  lines, 
through  the  stages  of  artist  and  story-teller  up 
to  author,  in  which  the  other  half  of  the  dual 
personality  was  controlled  and  evolved  for  the 
best  ? 


Donald  G.  Mitchell 

At  Edgewood,  in  New  Haven,,  Conn. 


BY   MR.    MITCHELL 

Born  in  I&22  in  Norwich,  Conn. 

Fresh  Gleanings.      1847. 

The  Battle  Summer.      1848. 

The  Lorgnette.      2  v.      1850. 

Reveries  of  a  Bachelor.       1850. 

Dream  Life.      1851. 

My  Farm  of  Edge  wood.      1863. 

Seven  Stories  with  Basement  and  Attic.      1864. 

Wet  Days  at  Edge  wood.      1864. 

Dr.  Johns.      1 866. 

Out-of-Town  Places.      1884. 

About  Old  Story-Tellers.      1877. 

Bound  Together.      1884. 

English  Lands,  Letters,  and  Kings.     4  v.      1889-90. 

American  Lands  and  Letters.      2  v.      1897-99. 


XV 

Donald  G.  Mitchell 
At  Edgewood,  in   New   Haven,   Conn. 

MR.  MITCHELL  has  himself  enter 
tainingly  informed  us  of  the  circum 
stances  of  his  settlement  at  Edge- 
wood,  and  the  public  has  probably  gained, 
through  the  medium  of  his  various  books,  an 
intimate  acquaintance  with  his  country  home. 
It  is  the  Edgewood  of  1863,  however,  at  that 
time  one  of  the  most  flourishing  of  our  New 
England  farms — the  Edgewood  of  Mr.  Mitch 
ell's  charming  books,  with  its  beehives,  its  lilac 
bushes,  its  evergreen  coppices,  its  indispensable 
eastern  slope,  its  sunny  frontage,  its  strip  of 
sea,  and  its  twinkling  light-house  barely  discern 
ible  from  the  library  window — with  which  all 
lovers  of  literature  have  been  familiarized  dur 
ing  the  past  forty  years. 

"  My  Farm  of  Edgewood,"  which  appeared 
in  1863,  formed  one  of  the  chief  literary  de 
lights  of  the  older  generation,  and  still  makes 
innumerable  friends  among  the  new.  It  bids 
fair,  indeed,  to  take  permanent  rank  with  those 
works  of  the  ancient  farmers — such  as  Xeno- 
[«97] 


American  Authors  &  ^heir  Homes 

phon  and  Horace  and  Cato  and  Pliny,  and  later 
Pietro  di  Crescenzi,  Izaak  Walton,  Lord  Ba 
con,  and  Lord  Kames — in  whom  Mr.  Mitchell 
himself  years  ago  recognized  a  kindred  spirit. 
It  seems  a  rather  melancholy  turn  of  fate, 
however,  that,  though  Mr.  Mitchell's  book 
itself  is  likely  to  have  a  perennial  youth,  its 
subject,  the  farm,  seems  hardly  destined  to 
so  pleasant  a  fortune.  Edgewood,  or  at  least 
its  environs,  already  begins  to  bear  evidence 
of  that  oncoming  old  age  of  which  Mr.  Mit 
chell's  works  have  not  given  the  slightest  in 
dication. 

It  must  not  be  assumed  from  this  that  there 
are  any  signs  of  dilapidation  about  Edgewood ; 
for  everything  still  possesses  that  trimness  and 
neatness  which  its  proprietor  has  taught  us  to 
regard  as  the  prime  requisite  of  successful  farm 
ing.  The  principal  point,  however,  is  that  it 
is  almost  impossible  now  to  regard  Mr.  Mitch 
ell's  home  as  a  country  place.  It  is  every  day 
losing  its  rural  aspect,  and  beginning  to  assume 
the  doubtful  characteristic  of  surburban  things. 
"  Surburban  "  is  a  terrible  word  to  the  artistic 
soul,  suggestive  of  the  keen-eyed  real  estate 
broker,  imaginary  corner  lots,  skeleton  thorough 
fares,  a  smattering  of  frame  houses  of  cheap 
[198] 


Donald  G.  Mitchell 

architectural  splendor,  an  occasional  electric 
light,  and  a  solitary  trolley-car. 

"  The  house,"  said  Mr.  Mitchell  nearly  forty 
years  ago,  "  lay  on  the  edge  of  the  wood,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  if  it  should  be  mine  it  should 
wear  the  name  of  Edgewood."  It  still  lies  on 
the  edge  of  the  wood,  but  it  lies  on  the  edge  of 
the  city,  too.  New  Haven  is  slowly  creeping 
about  Mr.  Mitchell's  farm,  and  from  his  li 
brary  window,  in  addition  to  the  many  delight 
ful  things  he  saw  forty  years  ago,  he  can  now 
watch  the  "  development  "  of  urban  real  estate, 
under  the  smart  manipulation  of  city  financiers. 
Land  in  that  region  is  still,  we  believe,  sold 
and  assessed  by  the  acre,  but  it  cannot  be 
many  years  before  it  will  be  reckoned  by  the 
front  foot. 

The  scattered  farm-houses  in  which  the  old 
Edgewood  found  a  congenial  companionship 
have  almost  disappeared  in  the  numerous  ten 
ements  that  have  sprung  up  in  the  past  few 
years.  These  are  in  every  respect  modern  af 
fairs,  are  frequently  of  flaring  architecture, 
with  no  end  of  gables  and  bow  windows  ;  kept 
constantly  crisp  and  fresh  painted,  with  a  vig 
ilant  eye  to  the  prospective  tenant.  There  are 
many  other  attractions  that  Mr.  Mitchell  did 
[  199] 


American  Authors  &  ^heir  Homes 

not  include  in  his  famous  advertisement  for  a 
country  place ;  the  all-penetrative  trolley-car, 
for  example,  now  stops  almost  at  that  genial 
philosopher's  door. 

He  can  take  a  short  stroll  to  the  east  and 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  asphalt,  and  the  wind 
ing  stream  which  was  one  of  the  delights  of 
the  early  landscape  has,  by  some  strange  and 
not  too  irreproachable  freak  of  municipal  en 
terprise,  been  straightened  into  a  long,  lank, 
utterly  useless  canal.  The  meadows  surround 
ing  the  stream — perhaps  through  Mr.  Mitchell's 
own  promptings — now  form  part  of  a  park 
reservation,  which  has  passed  into  the  keeping 
of  the  city  authorities. 

Perhaps  the  greatest  change  of  all  is  in  the 
house  itself.  The  "  grayish-white  "  farm-house, 
in  which  the  author  of  the  "  Reveries  "  lived 
for  several  years,  and  which  he  describes  in 
"  My  Farm  of  Edgewood,"  has  long  since  dis 
appeared.  It  has  been  replaced  by  a  low,  two- 
story  building,  in  whose  construction  its  ar 
chitect  evidently  utilized  much  of  the  experience 
gained  in  the  erection  of  the  little  farm  cottage 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  the  main  dwelling.  We  remember  the 
ridicule  which  this  "  milkmaid's  "  domicile  re- 

[200] 


Donald  G.  Mitchell 

ceived  at  the  hands  of  the  country  "  Squires  " 
— by  the  way,  Mr.  Mitchell's  neighbors  do  not 
refer  to  each  other  now  as  "  Squires  " — and 
the  persistence  with  which  he  maintained  that  he 
had  hit  upon  a  happy  idea.  The  scheme  worked 
so  well,  indeed,  that  it  proved  serviceable  in  the 
construction  of  the  present  farm-houses. 

The  first  story  is  built  of  rough  stones, 
gathered  from  the  author's  own  fields.  These 
have  not  been  smoothed  or  chipped  in  any  way, 
but  cemented  together  in  their  original  state. 
A  concession  has  been  made  on  the  corners, 
where  Mr.  Mitchell  has  consented  to  use  plain 
red  bricks.  The  second  story  is  of  conventional 
clapboard,  painted  a  dull  yellow,  and  is  sur 
mounted  by  a  slate  roof,  from  which  projects  an 
occasional  dormer  window.  On  the  east  end 
is  the  indispensable  porch,  and  in  the  rear  a  large, 
sunny  living  room.  The  artificial  fountain,  to 
which  Mr.  Mitchell's  book  refers,  has  disap 
peared,  but  the  well-kempt  English  hedge,  fol 
lowing  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  roadway,  the 
snug  coppices  of  evergreens,  the  silent  pool  over 
hung  by  willows,  still  remain.  From  his  win 
dows,  too,  the  view  is  still  as  engaging  as  on 
the  brilliant  June  morning  when  Mr.  Mitchell 
paid  his  first  visit  to  his  future  home. 
[201  ] 


American  Authors  &  'Their  Homes 

To  the  north  the  range  of  blue  hills  begins 
and  ends  in  the  two  beetling  cliffs,  East  and 
West  Rock,  both  of  which  have  now  been  trans 
formed  into  city  parks.  In  front  of  the  house 
the  eastern  stretch  of  farm  country,  though  occa 
sionally  disturbed  by  one  of  the  modern  houses 
referred  to,  has  lost  little  of  its  early  beauty,  and 
the  immediate  neighborhood  of  the  residence 
is  still  under  zealous  cultivation.  The  white 
church  spires  of  the  surrounding  villages  and 
city  still  project  above  the  elm-trees,  and  to  the 
south  the  harbor  of  New  Haven,  with  its  several 
breakwaters  and  light-houses,  furnishes  that 
glimpse  of  the  sea  which  Mr.  Mitchell  regards 
as  indispensable  to  a  country  home.  On  clear 
days  he  can  plainly  distinguish  the  sailing  craft 
and  steamers,  and  on  a  few  especially  favored 
occasions  the  white  bluffs  of  Long  Island  shore. 

The  road  in  front  of  the  house  leads  north 
erly  to  the  quaint  hamlet  of  Westville,  which 
has  undergone  few  changes  during  the  past  forty 
years,  and  to  the  south  to  West  Haven,  a  more 
progressive  and  thriving  village.  The  whole 
landscape,  a  not  incongruous  mixture  of  coun 
try  and  town,  is  closed  in  by  purple  hills,  the 
broad  stretch  of  the  sea  overcoming  any  sense 
of  confinement  or  oppression. 

[  202  } 


Donald  G.  Mitchell 

Mr.  Mitchell  purchased  Edgewood  in  1855, 
and  it  has  therefore  been  his  home  for  almost 
fifty  years.  Before  his  settlement  there,  he  had 
spent  a  somewhat  rambling  life,  had  crossed  the 
ocean  several  times,  had  been  present  at  Paris 
during  the  outbreaks  in  1848,  had  had  a  brief 
political  career  as  United  States  Consul  at  Ven 
ice,  and  had  written  one  or  two  volumes  of 
sketches  not  now  included  in  his  collected  works. 
He  had  always  a  leaning  toward  farming — 
he  came,  indeed,  of  old  Connecticut  farming 
stock.  He  spent  a  few  years  after  his  gradua 
tion  from  Yale  in  work  of  this  kind,  and  when 
the  time  came  for  him  to  make  a  permanent 
settlement  in  life  there  was  no  hesitation  as  to 
his  course. 

It  will  be  remembered,  however,  that  he  did 
not  take  up.  the  farm  from  the  purely  romantic 
point  of  view.  He  would  have  found  it  impos 
sible  to  settle  in  an  unattractive  place,  whatever 
might  have  been  its  agricultural  advantages ; 
but,  for  all  that,  he  proposed  to  take  up  farming 
as  a  serious  vocation.  Does  farming  pay  ?  was 
not  so  serious  a  question  in  Connecticut  in  1855 
as  it  has  since  become ;  there  are  now  many 
snug  fortunes  in  the  State  that  were  accumu 
lated  by  the  industry  of  old-time  farmers.  When 
[  203  ] 


American  Authors  &  ^heir  Homes 

Mr.  Mitchell  took  hold  of  Edgewood,  Connect 
icut  farming  had  not  become  a  lost  art,  and  he 
had  every  hope  of  a  satisfactory  return. 

He  worked  at  his  property  for  several  years 
with  some  success.  He  never  became  a  money- 
making  farmer,  indeed,  but  still  he  did  not  run 
largely  behind.  He  provided  for  his  own  table, 
had  many  little  landscape  luxuries  unknown  to 
his  neighbors,  and — if  we  may  trust  the  story  of 
"  The  Farm  "  book — a  modest  profit  at  the  end 
of  each  year.  But  from  the  general  collapse  of 
New  England  agriculture — due  to  the  great 
economical  and  social  phenomena  of  the  past 
thirty  years,  Mr.  Mitchell  and  his  Edgewood 
farm  have  not  been  exempt. 

He  long  ago  solved  the  problem  what  to  do 
with  the  farm  by  deciding  to  give  over  its 
management  to  those  who  are  better  traders — if 
not  better  cultivators.  He  is  no  longer  annoyed 
by  his  Irish  "  milkmaids,"  by  his  scientific  agri 
culturists  from  the  town,  by  his  quietly  sarcastic 
country  neighbors,  or  his  commercially  minded 
city  friends,  with  their  ever-iterated  query,  "  Do 
you  get  your  money  back  ?  "  For  several  years  Mr. 
Mitchell  has  leased  his  farm  lands,  and  has  thus 
had  the  pleasure  of  watching  the  processes  of 
culture  without  sharing  any  of  the  anxieties  as  to 
t  204] 


Donald  G.  Mitchell 

the  financial  outcome.  The  change  has  not  been 
unwelcome  to  the  public,  for  it  has  given  him 
more  time  to  cultivate  the  books  of  a  carefully 
stocked  library  and  to  write. 

Mr.  Mitchell,  in  his  book  on  Edgewood,  de 
plores  the  fact  that  farming  is  too  exacting  a 
vocation  to  give  sufficient  opportunity  for  per 
sonal  culture,  but  during  the  past  few  years  he 
has  found  ample  time  to  devote  to  literature. 
His  connection  with  his  Alma  Mater — Yale — 
has  been  pleasantly  maintained  through  his 
forty  odd  years'  residence  in  New  Haven.  He 
has  lectured  from  time  to  time  before  the  Uni 
versity,  and  in  1878  his  position  in  American 
literature  was  recognized  by  the  degree  of  LL.D. 

Mr.  Mitchell  is  now  in  his  eightieth  year. 
He  has  naturally  reached  the  age  of  well- 
earned  leisure,  and  when  he  may  regard  the 
most  important  part  of  his  life-work  as  com 
plete.  During  the  past  few  years,  indeed,  he  has 
written  his  "English  Lands,  Letters,  and  Kings," 
and  his  "  American  Lands  and  Letters,"  and  has 
made  revisions  of  work  done  many  years  ago. 
He  is  as  regular  in  his  habits  to-day  as  when  he 
first  engaged  in  the  serious  business  of  farming 
at  Edgewood.  He  rises  at  a  seasonable  hour 
and  devotes  most  of  his  morning  to  work.  He 
[  205  ] 


American  Authors   &  T'heir  Homes 

writes,  attends  to  his  correspondence,  and  relig 
iously  denies  himself  to  all  callers,  and  even  to 
his  own  family.  In  the  early  part  of  the  after 
noon  he  takes  a  nap,  followed  by  a  stroll  about 
his  farm  or  a  drive  into  the  surrounding  country. 
He  is  a  great  advocate  of  walking  as  a  method  of 
healthful  exercise,  and  vigorously  practises  his 
own  preaching.  From  4.30  to  6  o'clock  are  his 
only  free  hours,  and  these  he  devotes  to  his 
friends  and  an  occasional  caller.  Mr.  Mitchell, 
however,  sees  few  casual  visitors  these  days, 
preferring  to  spend  what  time  he  has  with  old 
friends. 

When  it  is  remembered  that  the  most  well- 
known  part  of  Mr.  Mitchell's  work  was  done 
before  he  came  to  New  Haven,  and  that  the  sales 
of  his  two  most  famous  books,  the  "  Reveries  of 
a  Bachelor  "  and  the  "  Dream  Life,"  are  still  un 
remitting,  it  would  hardly  seem  extravagant  to 
assume  that  one  of  the  permanent  figures  of 
American  literature  is  spending  his  final  years 
in  the  comfortable  retirement  of  Edgewood. 
Mr.  Mitchell  was  in  early  life  a  friend  of  Irving 
and  a  visitor  at  Sunnyside,  and  he  is  to-day  the 
representative  of  the  Irving  literary  tradition. 

A  mere  glance  at  his  books  shows  that  he  be 
longs  to  a  generation  of  literature  with  which 
[206] 


Donald  G.  Mitchell 

modern  authors  have  little  to  do.  It  seems  as 
sured  that  his  books  will  survive,  in  spite  of 
their  highly  colored  romantic  qualities,  for  the 
same  reason  that  the  works  of  Irving  find 
thousands  of  readers  in  an  age  of  realism  and 
literary  finesse — because  of  the  wholesome  hu 
man  feeling  by  which  they  are  inspired,  and  the 
dulcet,  mellow  English  in  which  they  are  writ 
ten,  for  their  charms  are  everlasting.  Mr. 
Mitchell's  quiet  life  at  Edgewood  among  his 
books  and  his  recollections  are  suggestive  re 
minders  of  the  fact  that  the  world  has  not  yet 
entirely  lost  its  spirit  of  romance.  It  has  not 
yet  outgrown  its  early  love  for  old-fashioned 
books  and  old-fashioned  authors. 


[207] 


Thomas    tf^entwortb   Higginson 
In    Cambridge,  Mass. 


BY    COLONEL    HIGG1NSON 

Born  in  1823,  in  Cambridge,  Mast. 

Woman  and   Her  Wishes.      1853. 

Out-door  Papers.      1863. 

Army  Life  in  a  Black  Regiment.      1869. 

Margaret  Fuller  Ossoli.      1884. 

The  Monarch  of  Dreams.      1887. 

Women  and  Men.      1 888. 

Life  of  Francis  Higginson.      1891. 

Concerning  All  of  Us.      1892. 

Book  and  Heart.      1897. 

Cheerful  Yesterdays.      1898. 

Tales  of  the  Enchanted  Islands  of  the  Atlantic. 

Contemporaries.      1899. 

Old  Cambridge.      1899. 


XVI 

Thomas    If^entworth    Higginson 
In     Cambridge,   Mass. 

VISITORS  to  Cambridge  who  know 
only  the  college  yard  and  its  immedi 
ate  neighborhood  think  of  the  old  city 
as,  topographically,  one  of  the  flattest  of  places. 
There  are  even  Cambridge  citizens  who  are  un 
acquainted  with  the  ridge  of  high  land  at  the 
summit  of  which  stands  the  observatory  of 
Harvard,  and  where,  at  the  head  of  Buckingham 
Street,  not  a  stone's  throw  from  the  observatory, 
is  seen  the  house  Thomas  Wentworth  Higgin 
son  built  for  himself  nearly  twenty  years  ago. 
At  one  side  is  a  group  of  tall  spruces  that  al 
most  hide  it  from  the  eyes  of  those  approaching 
from  Concord  Avenue.  At  the  back  is  a  little 
grove,  while  at  the  other  side  is  an  open  lawn 
with  a  tennis-court.  It  is  in  this  house  that 
Colonel  Higginson  a  few  years  ago  celebrated 
his  seventy-fifth  birthday. 

To  speak  of  Colonel    Higginson  as  the  Nes 
tor  of  American  letters  might  be  true.      It  is  a 
sentence   that  sounds   fairly    well    in   print  and 
would  pass   unchallenged     by   those  who  have 
[211] 


American  Authors  &  T'heir  Homes 

never  seen  Colonel  Higginson.  Those  who 
know  him,  however,  must  at  once  object  to  the 
word,  since  the  term  summons  up  the  vision  of 
an  aged  man  with  snowy  locks.  He  may  have 
gray  hairs,  but  his  hair  as  a  mass  is  not  gray, 
nor  is  his  tall,  athletic  figure  much  less  vigorous 
than  twenty  years  ago.  His  complexion,  his 
eye,  his  expression  are  those  of  a  young  man, 
and  a  young  man  he  is  in  manner  and  feeling. 
Each  birthday  since  his  seventieth  has  been 
made  a  special  gala  day  by  his  friends. 

The  old  brass  knocker  and  the  door-plate  with 
the  name  "  S.  Higginson  "  came  from  the  Kirk- 
land  Street  house  of  Colonel  Higginson's  father. 
The  hall  into  which  the  visitor  steps,  and  the 
broad  stairway  inside  were  modelled  somewhat 
after  those  of  an  historic  Portsmouth  house  be 
longing  to  a  Wentworth  ancestor.  For  Colonel 
Higginson  (through  his  mother,  Louisa  Storrow) 
is  a  direct  descendant  of  the  first  Governor 
Wentworth  of  New  Hampshire,  and  collaterally 
is  related  to  other  governors  of  the  same  name. 
A  portrait  in  oil  of  Governor  Wentworth,  a  copy 
of  an  original  painting,  hangs  at  the  head  of  the 
stairway,  and  the  easy-chair  in  which  Colonel 
Higginson  does  most  of  his  writing  is  an  heir 
loom. 

[212  ] 


Thomas  Wentiuorth  Higginson 

Over  the  stairway  hang  two  other  interesting 
portraits.  Though  the  painter  is  not  definitely 
known,  it  is  thought  that  one,  if  not  both  por 
traits,  came  from  the  brush  of  Sir  John  Thorn- 
hill.  Their  date  is  about  1700,  and  their  style 
is  altogether  excellent,  with  a  certain  quaint 
stiffness,  suggesting  Copley,  though  belonging 
to  an  earlier  period.  One  shows  Nathaniel 
Higginson,  Governor  of  Madras,  and  his  wife 
seated  at  a  table,  while  a  young  man,  Stephen 
Ainsworth,  who  afterward  married  their  daugh 
ter,  is  entering  the  room.  Through  the  open 
door  is  a  distant  view  of  Fort  St.  George.  The 
other  portrait  shows  a  deer  park  in  the  back 
ground,  with  portraits  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ains 
worth  and  the  sister  of  the  latter,  Deborah  Hig 
ginson,  who  became  Mrs.  Jeffries.  Governor 
Nathaniel  Higginson  was  a  brother  of  Colonel 
Higginson's  ancestor,  Colonel  John  Higginson 
of  Salem. 

Beside  these  paintings  hangs  a  portrait  of 
Colonel  Higginson  in  his  youth  by  Eastman 
Johnson.  Near  by  is  a  head  of  Colonel  Hig 
ginson's  young  daughter — his  only  child — and 
portraits  of  his  father  and  grandfather,  Stephen 
Higginson,  a  member  of  the  Continental  Con 
gress  of  1783.  Another  small  portrait  of  con- 
[213] 


American  Authors  &  T^heir  Homes 

siderable  interest  is  that  of  the  first  Mrs.  Long 
fellow,  aunt  of  the  present  Mrs.  Higginson. 

Hanging  in  the  lower  hall  near  the  stairway 
is  an  oil-painting  with  an  unusual  history.  It  is 
a  life-size  portrait  of  Pope's  Man  of  Ross,  by 
whom  painted,  or  in  what  way  it  came  to  this 
country  is  not  known.  It  was  sent  anonymously 
to  Colonel  Higginson's  father  by  some  friend 
who  concealed  his  identity.  On  the  back  is  a 
long  inscription  stating  that  it  was  sent  to  a 
man  who  "  so  eminently  copys  the  fair  original." 
Colonel  Higginson  has  had  thorough  inquiries 
made  in  the  village  of  Ross,  England,  only  to 
learn  that  neither  of  the  two  portraits,  once 
known  to  exist  of  the  hero  of  Pope's  poem,  is 
now  there.  This  is  believed  to  be  one  of  the 
two. 

Other  interesting  things  in  the  hallway  are 
the  first  flag  ever  carried  by  a  colored  regiment, 
a  sword  given  to  Colonel  Higginson  by  the 
Freedmen  of  Beaufort,  S.  C.,  and  the  one  he 
himself  carried  in  the  war.  At  the  left  of  the 
hall  is  a  room  which  combines  a  drawing-room 
with  a  library.  It  is  thoroughly  homelike,  with 
open  fireplace,  high  book-cases,  grand  piano, 
and  old-fashioned  furniture.  Old  portraits  are 
on  the  walls,  as  a  Madonna  by  Luca  Delia 
[214] 


Thomas  Wentuiorth  Higginson 

Robbia,  and  many  photographs  and  souvenirs  of 
travel. 

Opening  from  this  room  is  a  small  study 
where  formerly  Colonel  Higginson  did  all  his 
work.  Book-cases  reach  from  ceiling  to  floor, 
and  a  large  desk  stands  near  a  window.  Colonel 
Higginson  has  a  slip  of  paper  pasted  in  each  vol 
ume  with  his  name  plainly  printed  in  large  capitals. 

Within  late  years  there  have  gone  from  his 
shelves  about  1,000  volumes,  which  he  had  been 
thirty  years  in  collecting,  and  to  which  he  had 
given  the  name  of  "  The  Galatea  Collection." 
They  are  now  in  an  alcove  of  the  Public  Li 
brary  of  Boston,  a  gift  from  Colonel  Higginson, 
who  hopes  that  those  who  are  interested  in  the 
social,  industrial,  and  educational  condition  of 
women,  will  consult  them  frequently.  Many 
are  rare  and  curious,  especially  those  in  other 
languages  than  English. 

Colonel  Higginson  no  longer  does  the  most 
of  his  writing  in  the  cosey  little  down-stairs  study. 
When  he  started  work  on  his  "  Naval  and  Mili 
tary  History  of  Massachusetts  in  the  Civil 
War,"  a  large  room  became  necessary  for  his 
secretaries,  and  an  apartment  up-stairs  was  set 
apart.  Comparatively  little  of  his  work  is  dic 
tated.  He  gives  his  mornings  to  writing  and 
[215] 


American  Authors   &  T'hefr  Homes 

seldom  leaves  the  house  or  sees  visitors  before 
three  o'clock.  Always  fond  of  out-door  life,  he 
still  continues  to  take  long  walks.  A  few  years 
ago  he  was  devoted  to  bicycling,  and  was  often 
to  be  met  in  Cambridge  streets  or  on  adjacent 
roads  accompanied  by  his  little  daughter. 

Out-door  exercise  for  men  and  women  has 
had  no  stronger  advocate  than  he.  No  reader 
of  "  Out-door  Papers  "  needs  to  be  told  this. 
In  his  boyhood  he  was  fond  of  swimming,  skat 
ing,  foot-ball,  cricket,  and  other  open-air  sports, 
and  in  war  times  of  fencing  and  military  drill. 
This  love  of  out-door  life  and  an  optimistic  spirit 
have  combined  to  keep  youthfulness  alive. 

It  is  to  him  a  source  of  joy  that  the  home  of 
his  later  years  is  hardly  ten  minutes'  walk  from 
the  house  built  by  his  father  in  Kirkland  Street, 
which  was  his  birth-place.  The  old  house  is 
standing  at  the  head  of  Professors'  Row  under 
the  shadow  of  Memorial  Hall.  Its  ancient 
neighbor,  the  first  home  of  Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes,  long  since  disappeared.  New  and 
magnificent  college  buildings  are  crowding  on 
houses  at  the  upper  end  of  the  stately  avenue. 
Yet  enough  of  the  old  dwellings  remains  to  pre 
serve  the  identity  of  the  street,  and  to  give  it 
much  the  same  character  that  it  had  in  Colonel 
[216] 


'Thomas  Wentujorth  Higginson 

Higginson's  youth.  In  that  ideal  autobiography, 
"  Cheerful  Yesterdays,"  he  has  told  us  that  the 
earliest  documentary  evidence  which  he  has  of 
his  own  existence  is  a  note  from  Edward  Ever 
ett,  then  a  neighbor,  inquiring  after  the  health  of 
"  the  babe." 

Stephen  Higginson,  his  father,  had  been  a 
prosperous  Boston  merchant,  a  liberal  enter 
tainer,  and  was  noted  for  benevolence.  After 
Jefferson's  embargo  had  deprived  him  of  his  fort 
une,  his  friends  procured  for  him  the  post  of 
Stewart  (bursar)  of  Harvard.  In  the  Kirkland 
Street  house,  with  its  library  of  eighteenth-cen 
tury  books,  there  was  a  decided  literary  atmos 
phere.  Andrews  Norton,  John  Gorham  Palfrey, 
George  Ticknor,  and  Jared  Sparks  were  among 
its  visitors.  Washington  Irving,  a  connection 
by  marriage,  once  came  within  its  walls.  Long 
fellow,  too,  and  his  sister ;  John  Holmes  and 
his  more  distinguished  brother,  Christopher 
Pearse  Cranch,  John  S.  Dwight,  and  various 
members  of  the  Harvard  faculty,  of  whom  a 
number  reached  decided  eminence,  knew  this 
home  well.  Colonel  Higginson's  mother  was  a 
woman  of  culture,  and  his  father  was  bookish. 
His  grandfather,  Stephen  Higginson,  published 
several  political  pamphlets. 
[217] 


American  Authors   &  "Their  Homes 

It  would  have  been  strange  if  a  thoughtful 
boy  with  such  an  environment  and  ancestry  had 
not  drifted  into  a  literary  career.  On  gradua 
ting  from  Harvard  when  not  quite  eighteen,  he 
first  tried  teaching,  and  later  entered  the  Har 
vard  Divinity  School.  His  first  parish  was  that 
of  the  First  Religious  Society  at  Newburyport, 
over  which  he  was  placed  in  1847,  anc^  ^is  sec~ 
ond  the  Free  Church  of  Worcester,  to  which 
he  went  in  1852.  During  these  years  he  be 
came  very  outspoken  in  espousal  of  the  anti- 
slavery  cause.  This  was  the  more  remarkable 
on  his  part,  as  by  ancestry  and  social  connec 
tions  he  naturally  belonged  in  the  more  con 
servative  society  of  Boston  and  Cambridge. 
Not  only  his  pen  but  his  muscular  strength  was 
put  at  the  service  of  the  Abolitionists.  His 
part  in  the  Anthony  Burns  affair  and  his  efforts 
to  rescue  other  escaped  slaves  are  well  known 
as  well  as  the  practical  help  he  gave  in  the 
Kansas  troubles. 

When  the  war  broke  out  he  offered  his  ser 
vices  to  Governor  Andrew,  and  spent  some 
time  drilling  part  of  a  regiment  near  Worcester. 
When  the  offer  came  from  General  Rufus  Sax- 
ton  of  the  colonelcy  of  a  black  regiment — the 
first  to  be  raised — he  gladly  accepted  it  and  has- 
[218] 


Thomas  Wentivorth  Higginson 

tened  to  South  Carolina,  where  it  was  forming. 
In  August,  1863,  he  was  seriously  wounded  at 
Wilton  Bluff,  and  a  few  months  later,  on  ac 
count  of  illness,  resigned  his  command.  His 
"  Army  Life  in  a  Black  Regiment  "  gives  an 
account  of  his  military  experience. 

After  the  war,  while  living  at  Newport,  Col 
onel  Higginson  devoted  himself  entirely  to  lit 
erature.  Before  this  he  had  been  an  occasional 
contributor  to  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  The 
charm  of  his  style  is  felt  at  the  first  reading. 
Every  word  is  so  carefully  chosen,  and  every 
sentence  so  well  placed,  that  no  change  or  re 
arrangement  seems  possible.  His  vigorous  and 
graceful  thought  touches  a  wide  range  of  sub 
jects,  and  its  prevailing  characteristics  are  re 
finement  and  patriotism. 

Years  ago  he  was  a  popular  lyceum  lecturer. 
He  became  most  agreeable  on  the  platform,  and 
was  a  favorite  presiding  officer  and  after-dinner 
speaker.  No  one  who  has  ever  heard  him  can 
forget  the  grace  of  his  manner,  the  quick  flash 
of  his  wit,  or  the  force  of  his  argument.  Among 
the  optimistic  beliefs  of  Colonel  Higginson  is 
one  that  the  scholar  makes  himself  much  more 
often  of  value  in  politics  than  the  world  in  gen 
eral  believes. 

[219] 


American  Authors  &  Their  Homes 

Three  years  ago  the  degree  of  LL.D.  was 
conferred  upon  him  by  Harvard.  The  same 
degree  had  been  given  to  him  some  years  before 
by  the  Western  Reserve  University.  Five  of 
his  books  have  been  translated  into  French, 
three  into  German,  one  into  Italian,  and  one 
into  modern  Greek.  In  various  journeys  abroad 
he  has  met  many  of  the  most  interesting  figures 
prominent  in  the  social  and  literary  life  of  Eng 
land  and  France — Browning,  Tennyson,  Her 
bert  Spencer,  Rossetti,  Alma  Tadema,  Lord 
Houghton,  Lord  Lyttelton,  Thomas  Hughes, 
Aubrey  de  Vere,  James  Bryce,  and  many  others. 

Besides  his  pleasant  Cambridge  house  Col 
onel  Higginson  has  a  cottage  at  Dublin,  N.  H., 
where  he  spends  several  months  every  year. 
This  is  at  the  very  foot  of  Mount  Monadnock, 
overlooking  Monadnock  Lake.  Here  he  can 
indulge  his  love  of  nature  and  of  natural  history 
— for  years  ago  he  became  a  careful  student  of 
microscopy.  Severe  illness  several  years  ago 
left  him  a  little  less  strong  than  formerly,  but 
he  has  continued  to  enter  with  zest  into  the 
pursuits  of  his  young  daughter — the  child  of  the 
second  Mrs.  Higginson — and  his  friends  are  in 
earnest  when  they  beg  him  to  tell  them  the  se 
cret  of  perpetual  youth. 

[220] 


George   E.  IFoodberry 
In  East  Seventeenth  Street ',  New  Tork 


BY  MR.  WOODBERRY 

Born  in  1855  in  Beverly,  Man. 
A  History  of  Wood  Engraving.      1883. 
Edgar  Allan  Poe.      1885. 

The  North  Shore  Watch  and  Other  Poems.      1890. 
Studies  in  Letters  and  Life.      1890. 
The  Heart  of  Man.      1899. 
Wild  Eden.      1899. 
Makers  of  Literature.      1900. 


XVII 

George  E.  IFoodberry 
In  East  Seventeenth  Street,  New  York 

WHEN  the  Players,  on  an  afternoon 
in  November,  1893,  held  their  me 
morial   service  for  Edwin  Booth  in 
the   Madison   Square   Garden   Concert   Hall,  it 
was  some  lines  entitled  "  The  Players'  Elegy  " 
which,  more  than  all  else,  voiced  the  prevailing 
sentiment  of  the  throng : 

Such  was  our  Hamlet,  whom  the  people  knew, 
A  soul  of  noble  breath,  sweet,  kind,  and  true  ; 
Our  flesh  and  blood,  yet  of  the  world  ideal, 
So  native  to  immortal  memory 
That  to  the  world  he  hardly  seems  to  die, 
More  than  the  poet's  page,  where  buried  lie 
The  form  and  feature  of  eternity. 

*JC  ?fC  ?js  JfC  5jC  JjC  2f€ 

For  us  the  vacant  chair, 
For  us  the  vanished  presence  from  the  room, 
The  silent  bust,  the  portrait  hung  with  gloom — 

He  will  not  come,  not  come  ! 

The  writer  of  this  "  Elegy  "  was  George  E. 
Woodberry,  poet,  essayist,  biographer,  critic,  pro 
fessor  of  literature,  whom,  a  little  more  than  ten 
[223] 


American  Authors  &  rfheir  Homes 

years  ago,  Columbia  University  called  to  one  of 
its  chairs.  He  has  ever  since  been  quietly  living 
in  the  heart  of  New  York,  busied  with  lectures, 
books,  and  pen.  The  gay  world  and  active  club 
land  hardly  know  him,  though,  indeed,  his  name 
has  been  set  down  in  one  of  the  year  books  of 
the  time.  He  prefers  to  spend  his  days  among 
books  and  his  students  on  Morningside  Heights. 
His  evenings  are  passed  in  work  or  reverie  in  his 
rooms  in  an  old  bachelor  apartment-house  at  5 
East  Seventeenth  Street,  where  in  old  dwellings 
still  survives  a  bit  of  the  New  York  of  twenty- 
five,  and,  perhaps,  forty,  years  ago. 

An  interesting  tradition  marks  this  bachelor 
dwelling-place — that  a  man  once  established  in 
it  never  departs  permanently  from  its  doorway 
except  to  lead  a  bride  to  the  altar.  These,  at 
least,  are  the  tales  that  are  told.  Maids  of  New 
York  may  profit  by  this  suggestion  and  hence 
forth  have  an  eye  on  bachelors  of  literature  who 
dwell  in  that  edifice.  It  is  in  an  old-fashioned, 
high-ceilinged  room  that  Professor  Woodberry  is 
"  at  home." 

For  that  matter — to  speak  with  absolute  ex 
actness — he  is  only  in  part  at  home  here.  More 
than  half  the  volumes  that  make  up  his  library, 
for  convenience  sake,  are  kept  in  his  rooms  at 
[224] 


George  E.  Woodberry 

Columbia.  When  the  college  occupied  its  old 
quarters  it  was  an  easy  matter  for  him  to  go  back 
and  forth.  But  the  distance  nowadays  is  too 
great  for  that.  On  four  days  in  the  week  Pro 
fessor  Woodberry  travels  up-town  to  spend  both 
morning  and  afternoon  on  the  university  grounds. 

It  is  in  the  evening,  therefore,  that  one  may 
best  look  in  upon  him  and  learn  to  know  the 
man.  A  strong  type  of  university  breeding  is 
he,  this  man  of  fine  attainments  and  broad  cult 
ure,  who  speaks  quietly  and  half  deprecatingly  of 
his  achievements,  and  yet  makes  you  feel  that 
he  quite  understands  what  he  has  accomplished. 
He  has  capabilities  which  would  have  given  him 
rank  in  anything  intellectual  if  his  taste  had  run 
elsewhere  than  to  literature.  But  you  cannot 
quite  imagine  him  in  commercial  life.  He  must 
have  been  a  round  peg  in  a  square  hole  had  he 
tried  business.  He  is  rather  the  thoroughly 
capable  college  man  of  that  class  of  such  in 
whom,  taken  in  a  body,  lies  so  much  hope  and 
promise  for  this  country. 

Not  at  once  do  you  feel  all  this,  for  Professor 
Woodberry  is  not  to  be  analyzed  on  the  instant. 
But,  little  by  little,  it  opens  up  before  the  visitor. 
Despite  the  fact  that  you  know  this  to  be  an  age 
of  young  men,  it  is  somewhat  confusing,  at  first, 
[225] 


American  Authors   &  ^heir  Homes 

to  realize  that  the  thick-set,  fresh-complexioned 
man,  whose  age  is  not  far  above  forty,  lying 
opposite  you  in  an  easy-chair,  holding  a  cigar  as 
if  it  were  the  most  interesting  thing  in  the  world, 
is  really  one  who  can  write  verse  glowing  with 
sentiment,  is  an  expert  in  many  forms  of  litera 
ture,  and  has  proved  himself  the  most  notable 
biographer  and  editor  of  Poe.  Such  endow 
ments  seem  rather  to  speak  of  a  man  middle- 
aged,  gray  of  hair,  with  a  touch  of  the  poet  in 
his  aspect. 

Professor  Woodberry  does  not  disappoint  you, 
however.  An  hour  with  him  and  all  is  clear. 
Under  the  young  head  there  is  an  old  brain,  an 
old  reasoning  faculty,  with  all  the  youthful  im 
agination,  sentiment,  and  enthusiasm.  Fortu 
nately,  not  one  single  dash  of  pedantry  has  gone 
into  the  mixture.  The  man  is  one  of  those 
rare  beings  who,  in  talking  "  shop,"  can  do  it 
delightfully.  In  his  very  modern  point  of  view, 
in  his  optimism,  there  is  a  hint  or  a  reminder  of 
Theodore  Roosevelt. 

Books  line  one  end  of  this  room  in  tall  book 
shelves,  in  the  bookman's  orderly  disorder.  The 
visitor  will  have  dipped  into  them  here  and  there, 
and  will  have  been  favored  with  a  sight  of  a  bun 
dle  of  manuscript  poems,  many  of  which  have 
[  226] 


George  E.  Woodberry 

already  seen  the  light  of  day  in  The  Century ; 
a  glimpse,  perhaps,  of  the  page-proofs  of  a  book 
of  essays.  When  the  professor  and  his  caller 
are  both  back  in  their  chairs,  with  fresh  cigars, 
the  professor  may  at  last  be  found  talking  of  his 
work  and  himself. 

"  I  was  a  free  lance  in  literature  in  the  begin 
ning,"  he  said.  "  I  started  in,  after  being  grad 
uated  from  Harvard,  writing  for  The  Atlantic 
and  The  Nation.  While  still  in  college  I  really 
began  my  Atlantic  work.  I  took  a  poem  to 
Mr.  Howells,  and  he  asked  me  if  I  thought  I 
could  do  a  review.  I  tried  it,  and  it  was  printed. 
Another  book  was  given  to  me  for  review,  and 
then  another.  Thus,  by  the  time  I  was  out  of 
college,  my  work  was  begun. 

"  When  Mr.  Aldrich  came  to  The  Atlantic,  he 
went  over  the  numbers  of  the  past  two  or  three 
years,  to  discover  who  had  been  writing  for  the 
magazine,  and  soon  after  that  he  sent  for  me  to 
come  and  see  him.  We  talked  matters  over, 
and  I  found  that  he  wanted  me  to  continue 
writing.  The  most  of  my  work  at  that  time 
went  into  The  Atlantic  and  The  Nation,  and  very 
little  of  it  will  ever  be  collected  by  me  into  book 
form.  It  was  too  much  of  the  time,  and  taken 
out  of  its  place  has  little  meaning. 
[227] 


American  Authors  &  Their  Homes 

"  This  work  that  is  nameless,  after  all,  ad 
vances  a  man  very  little.  I  have  found  that  out," 
and  Mr.  Woodberry  smiled  with  appreciation. 
"  I  have  not  much  of  a  name  now,  but  more 
than  I  had.  That  which  brought  me  into  no 
tice — the  Poe  biography — was  mere  chance.  It 
started,  practically,  as  a  piece  of  c  hack  work,'  a 
commission  that  I  accepted  because  it  was  offered 
to  me.  In  the  same  way  I  published,  through 
the  Harpers,  two  years  before  I  wrote  the  Poe 
biography  (that  is,  in  1883;  the  book  on  Poe 
was  published  in  1885),  a  c  History  of  Wood 
Engraving.'  This  was  an  amplification  of  two 
articles  I  had  written  for  Harper's  Magazine. 
There  was  no  4  history  '  of  this  sort  beyond  a 
very  costly  and  technical  history,  and  the  Har 
pers  thought  a  shorter,  simpler,  and  less  expen 
sive  volume  would  be  worth  issuing.  I  started 
out  on  Poe  precisely  as  I  had  on  the  l  History.' 

"  Now,  I  had  no  special  interest  in  Poe  and  I 
knew  nothing  especial  about  him.  With  just  as 
much  reason  any  other  American  man  of  letters 
might  have  been  given  to  me.  It  simply  hap 
pened  to  be  Poe.  Charles  Dudley  Warner  was 
arranging  his  4  American  Men  of  Letters '  series, 
and  he  wrote  and  asked  if  I  would  do  Poe  for 
him.  I  think  it  must  have  been  James  Russell 
[228] 


George  E.  Woodberry 

Lowell  that  suggested  me  to  Mr.  Warner, 
though  I  do  not  know  positively.  While  at 
Harvard  I  had  catalogued  Mr.  Lowell's  library 
for  him,  and  came  to  know  him  very  well.  He 
showed  me  many  kindnesses." 

Mr.  Woodberry  did  not  say  so,  nor  did  he 
touch  upon  the  subject,  but  there  is  good  reason 
to  believe  that  he  also  owes  his  present  professor 
ship  at  Columbia  to  Lowell's  kindly  offices  in 
the  matter  of  some  few  words  dropped  shortly 
before  that  famous  man's  death. 

"  But  it  was  not  long,"  went  on  Professor 
Woodberry,  as  we  both  sat  quietly,  thinking 
over  the  little  book  that  so  suddenly  gave  him 
fame,  "  before  Poe  became  something  new  to 
me,  the  details  of  his  life  something  more  than 
perfunctory.  I  began  to  study  his  life  carefully, 
and  looked,  into  the  charges  that  had  been  made 
against  him.  The  more  I  studied  them,  the 
more  I  came  to  believe  these  were  true.-  By 
correspondence  with  Lowell  I  got  at  the  Lowell 
letters,  which  were  of  great  value.  I  visited 
New  York  (I  was  then  living  at  Beverly,  Mass.), 
Washington,  and  Richmond.  I  saw  the  con 
nections  of  the  Allan  family,  who  brought  up 
Poe. 

"  There  were  in  existence,  too,  and  they  had 
[229] 


American  Authors  &  ^heir  Homes 

never  yet  been  examined,  the  private  papers  of 
Griswold,  Poe's  executor,  and  one  who  was 
closely  identified  with  him.  Grisvvold's  execu 
tor  was  the  late  George  H.  Moore,  Librarian  of 
the  Lenox  Library.  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Moore, 
and  received  a  very  pleasant  letter,  asking  me  to 
come  and  see  him.  I  went,  and  we  talked  the 
matter  over,  but  Mr.  Moore  was  inflexible. 
The  Griswold  papers  and  letters  could  not  be 
examined  by  anyone.  This  evidence  was  not 
available,  therefore,  for  the  biography.  It  has 
since  come  to  light,  however.  Mr.  Moore  after 
ward  died,  and  his  son  put  the  material  at  my 
disposal.  It  confirmed  what  the  biography  had 
said.  Nearly  all  of  the  Poe  documents  and  evi 
dence  are  in,  and  little  other  material  is  known 
to  exist,  with  the  exception  of  the  John  P.  Ken 
nedy  letters,  which  are  sealed  up  until  1920. 

"  Poe's  character,  after  months  of  study,  came 
to  me  in  only  one  light.  I  could  see  him  only 
in  the  light  in  which  I  portrayed  him,  and  every 
thing  new  that  came  into  my  hands  only  con 
firmed  this  view.  What  I  said  of  him  attracted 
attention,  and  it  seems  to  hold  attention  yet. 
Even  now  I  keep  hearing  from  people.  It  was 
this  book,  of  course,  that  called  forth  the  edition 
of  Poe's  works  some  years  later,  [this,  the  reader 
[230] 


George  E.  Woodberry 

will  remember,  was  edited  by  Mr.  Stedman  and 
Mr.  Woodberry,]  which  gave  Poe  for  the  first 
time  an  adequate  edition,  worthy  of  his  genius, 
such  as  the  other  great  American  authors  have, 
and  Poe  until  then  lacked." 

And  thus  Mr.  Woodberry  went  on.  It  is 
quite  impossible  to  reproduce  the  interesting 
way  these  facts  were  told.  The  words  them 
selves,  as  set  down  here,  fail  to  give  the  discur 
sive  manner,  the  side  remarks,  at  times  the  ex 
act  language,  and  likewise  the  charm  of  the 
personal  narration.  Lovingly  the  professor  took 
another  volume  down  from  shelves  where  stood 
scores  of  titles  in  general  literature. 

"  People,  in  general,  know  me  little  for  my 
Shelley,"  he  said.  "Yet  Shelley,  from  back  in 
my  college  days,  has  always  been  one  of  my 
enthusiasms.  This  is  the  Centenary  Edition  of 
his  poems,  which  I  edited  in  1894,  giving,  as 
you  will  notice,  all  the  variations,  line  for  line, 
with  complete  notes.  Much  of  my  examina 
tion  studies  for  this  I  did  in  the  private  library 
(since  dispersed)  of  Mr.  Frederickson,  then  a 
famous  collector  living  in  Brooklyn.  This  old 
gentleman  had  the  finest  Shelley  library  to  be 
found  anywhere.  He  was  a  familiar  and  pop 
ular  frequenter  of  auction  sales  and  shops  where 
[231  ] 


American  Authors  &  tfheir  Homes 

old  books  are  sold.  Everybody  knew  him  as 
*  Fred.'  He  had  collected  in  Shelleyana  over 
2,000  volumes,  including  the  very  earliest  and 
rarest  editions." 

As  a  poet,  altogether  too  few  know  Professor 
Woodberry.  His  work  in  other  forms  of  liter 
ature  has,  to  an  extent,  overshadowed  his  verse- 
making.  It  may  not  be  out  of  place  here  to 
quote  from  one  of  his  love-songs  : 

Now,  ere  the  long  day  close, 
That  has  been  so  full  of  bliss, 

I  will  send  to  my  love  the  rose, 
In  its  leaves  I  will  shut  a  kiss  ; 

A  rose  in  the  night  to  perish, 

A  kiss  through  life  to  cherish  ; 

Now,  ere  the  night-wind  blows, 

I  will  send  unto  her  the  rose. 

His  university  duties  Professor  Woodberry 
finds  interesting,  and  he  has  settled  into  them 
composedly.  It  was  a  new  field  for  him  when 
he  took  his  chair  of  literature,  and  he  has  dis 
covered  how  true  it  is,  as  Lowell  told  him  back 
at  Harvard,  that  while  hundreds  of  students  pass 
and  repass,  leaving  no  impression,  the  few 
bring  keen  attachments,  and  these  repay  the 
worker. 

A  volume  of  essays  from  his  pen,  published 
[232] 


George  E.  IVoodberry 

two  years  ago  is  "  The  Heart  of  Man,"  and 
comprises  four  papers  that  vary  greatly.  One 
on  "  Democracy,"  is  an  optimistic  analysis  of  the 
people  and  affairs  of  a  republic.  No  treatise 
more  cheering  has  of  late  years  come  from  the 
pen  of  any  man  of  culture.  It  shows  this  poet 
and  biographer  in  a  new  light,  as  a  philosopher. 
It  is  a  good  document  for  those  who  have  faith 
in  Democracy  working  out  her  own  salvation. 
Professor  Woodberry  said :  "  I  wrote  it  because 
I  thought  something  of  that  sort  needed  to  be 
written." 

A  later  book  of  essays,  and  one  that  probably 
contains  the  finest  work  in  criticism  that  Pro 
fessor  Woodberry  has  ever  done,  is  the  volume 
which  came  out  in  1900,  under  the  title 
"  Makers  of  Literature."  It  has  been  widely 
recognized  as  unsurpassed  by  anything  in  Amer 
ican  criticism  since  Lowell  wrote.  It  was 
a  collection  of  miscellaneous  papers  written  for 
periodicals  and  books  in  the  last  twenty  years. 
The  author  showed  how  he  has  been  touched 
by  the  very  soul  of  literature. 

He  has  still  in  hand  a  series,  of  which  he  is 
the  editor,  entitled  "  National  Studies  in  Amer 
ican  Letters."  Several  volumes  are  already  out, 
and  many  more  may  be  added,  though  the  num- 
[  233  1 


American  Authors   &  Their  Homes 

her  is  not  as  yet  made  known.  This  series  will 
cover  the  literature  of  America  by  sections, 
having  due  regard  to  the  importance  and  extent 
of  the  entire  subject.  It  will  comprise  a  novel 
set  of  volumes,  and  will  include  much  new  ma 
terial. 

When  the  hour  is  late  a  turn  in  the  fresh 
night  air  is  proposed.  Together  with  this  very 
modern  bookman,  the  "  prof."  of  many  a  Col 
umbia  boy,  the  writer  may  find  himself  strolling 
up  Fifth  Avenue,  under  the  shadow  of  publish 
ing  houses  and  piano  shops.  But  these  are 
unheeded  in  the  companionship  of  such  a  man. 


[  234] 


Andrew  Carnegie 
In  West  Fifty-first  Street,  New  Tork 


BY  MR.  CARNEGIE 

Born  in  1837  in  Dunfermlinc,  Scot/and 

Triumphant   Democracy  ;  or,  Fifty  Years'  March  of  the  Repub 
lic.      1886. 

Round  the  World.      1888. 
An  American  Four-in-Hand  in  Britain.      1 888. 
The  Gospel  of  Wealth.      1900. 


XVIII 

Andrew  Carnegie 
In  West  Fifty-first  Street^  New  York 

MR.  ANDREW  CARNEGIE  has 
one  hobby — it  is  libraries.  He  has 
founded  many  libraries — how  many 
need  not  be  said.  Two  years  ago  he  had 
founded  six,  but  the  number  now  is  some  mul 
tiple  of  six,  and  this  need  not  include  the  sixty 
odd  buildings  for  library  purposes  which  he  has 
given  to  New  York.  The  library  in  his  New 
York  house  is  the  most  spacious  and  luxuriously 
appointed  room  in  the  establishment.  Refer 
ence  is  here  made  to  the  house  he  has  long  lived 
in — not  to  the  spacious  mansion  nearing  com 
pletion  on  upper  Fifth  Avenue.  His  library 
occupies  the  entire  front  of  the  second  story 
of  the  house  in  West  Fifty-first  Street,  or, 
more  properly,  three  rooms  thrown  into  one 
form  the  library.  Here  "The  Gospel  of 
Wealth  "  was  written  and  many  of  the  college 
lectures. 

As  a  rule,  Mr.  Carnegie,  when  in  New  York, 
enters  his  library  every  morning  at  ten  o'clock 
and  remains  until  one  o'clock,  engaged  in  writ- 
[237  ] 


American  Authors  &  ^heir  Homes 

ing,  studying,  or  reading.  After  luncheon  he 
takes  a  short  stroll  in  the  Park,  or  a  drive,  to 
return  again  to  his  books  for  several  hours 
longer.  His  secretary  is  always  in  attendance. 
Readers  and  admirers  of  "  Triumphant  Democ 
racy  ;  or,  Fifty  Years'  March  of  the  Republic  " 
may  be  interested  to  know  that  Mr.  Carnegie's 
own  particular  copy  of  the  book — one  of  a 
small  edition  made  for  distribution  among  his 
friends — is  beautifully  bound,  and  upon  the 
cover,  stamped  in  gold,  is  the  reversed  crown 
which  forms  so  conspicuous  a  feature  of  his  coat 
of  arms ;  it  is  emblazoned  also  upon  his  li 
brary  wall,  high  up  between  the  front  windows. 
The  cap  of  liberty  surmounts  the  reversed  crown, 
which  forms  the  crest.  Upon  the  escutcheon 
are  a  weaver's  shuttle  and  a  shoemaker's  knife. 
The  supporters  are  the  American  and  Scotch 
flags,  with  the  legend  beneath,  "  Death  to  Privi 
lege."  The  whole  design  is  a  worthy  sugges 
tion  of  Mr.  Carnegie's  democratic  ideas. 

The  mammoth  table  standing  in  the  centre  of 
the  room  looks  very  business-like,  and  is  cov 
ered  with  various  literary  impedimenta.  Of 
course  there  are  books  and  books  everywhere. 
They  reach  from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling  and 
cover  three  sides  of  the  room,  as  well  as  en- 
[238] 


Andrew  Carnegie 

croach  upon  the  fourth  side,  which  is  the  bright 
spot  in  the  library,  with  its  fireplace.  On  either 
side  of  the  mantel  are  numerous  shelves,  where 
are  stored  away  precious  mementos  and  pleasing 
reminders  of  interesting  occasions — trowels,  for 
example,  of  which  Mr.  Carnegie  has  quite  a 
collection. 

They  are  well  worth  examining.  One  is  of 
silver  gilt,  with  an  oaken  handle,  and  was  used 
by  Mr.  Carnegie  in  laying  the  corner-stone 
of  the  library  which  he  presented  to  the  City 
of  Edinburgh  in  1887.  Another,  of  silver, 
with  an  ivory  handle,  bears  the  following  in 
scription  : 

Presented  by  the  Library  Committee  to  Mrs.  Car 
negie  on  the  occasion  of  her  laying  the  memorial  stone 
of  the  Carnegie  Free  Library,  the  gift  of  her  son,  An 
drew  Carnegie,  Esquire,  to  his  native  city  of  Dunferm- 
line,  27  July,  1881. 

Still  another  beautiful  trowel  is  the  one  used 
by  the  wife  of  Mr.  Carnegie  at  the  laying  of  the 
corner-stone  of  the  Carnegie  Music  Hall,  New 
York,  on  May  30,  1890.  Within  the  walls  of 
the  huge  structure  of  which  the  Music  Hall 
forms  a  part,  is  the  home  of  the  Authors  Club. 
Housed  elsewhere  in  inferior  quarters  for  some 
[  239] 


American  Authors   &  'Their  Homes 

years,  this  club  with  a  national  reputation,  now 
has  apartments  suitable  to  its  needs  and  worthy 
of  its  name.  Mr.  Carnegie  is  one  of  its  mem 
bers. 

Another  cherished  souvenir  is  the  small  oak 
and  silver  casket  in  which  the  freedom  of  the 
City  of  Edinburgh  was  presented  to  Mr.  Carne 
gie  on  the  occasion  of  his  gift  of  a  quarter  of  a 
million  dollars  to  found  the  Edinburgh  library. 
A  silver  plate  bears  the  inscription  : 

This  box  is  made  of  oak  from  the  house  of  Sir 
Thomas  Hope,  King's  Advocate,  of  Scotland,  1626- 
46,  who  ably  upheld  the  cause  of  civil  and  religious 
liberty  in  Covenant  times.  Presented  by  the  Corpora 
tion  of  Edinburgh  with  the  Burgess  ticket  conferring 
the  freedom  of  the  city  on  Andrew  Carnegie,  Esquire, 
U.  S.  A.,  8th  July,  1887. 

Silver  lions,  unicorns,  and  thistles  in  relief 
form  the  decorations  of  this  pretty  little  casket. 
While  Scotch  heather  is  Mr.  Carnegie's  favorite 
flower,  the  thistle  holds  a  large  share  of  his 
affections  and  appears  conspicuously  in  the  dec 
orations  of  the  library.  Upon  the  ceiling  are 
painted  clusters  of  thistles,  while  one  easy-chair 
which  invites  you  in  a  painted  legend  to  "  Rest 
awhile,"  is  also  resplendent  in  painted  thistles. 
The  plaid  of  the  Clan  Carnegie — dull  blues  and 
[  240] 


Andrew  Carnegie 

greens  with  a  thread  of  yellow — appears  here 
and  there  for  sofa-pillow  coverings.  If  Mr. 
Carnegie  wants  to  rest  awhile  or  take  a  siesta, 
there  is  a  comfortable  lounge  with  the  rollicking 
motto  above,  u  There's  a  good  time  coming, 
boys." 

When  he  wishes  relaxation  of  another  kind, 
he  turns  to  some  musical  tubes  forming  an  odd 
instrument  for  making  melody,  which  he  picked 
up  when  travelling  through  the  Orient.  It  con 
sists  of  eight  metal  tubes  of  graduated  lengths, 
hung  from  a  rather  high,  brass  frame ;  the  per 
former  makes  music  by  playing  on  these  tubes 
with  a  little  felt-covered  mallet.  The  music  of 
"  My  Country,  'Tis  of  Thee,"  Mr.  Carnegie 
has  had  arranged  for  the  tubes,  as  well  as  "  Ye 
Banks  and  Braes,"  "  Auld  Lang  Syne,"  "  My 
Nut  Brown  Maiden,"  "  Scenes  That  Are 
Brightest,"  and  "  Ring  o'  Bells  and  Peal  o' 
Gongs."  Any  one  of  these  tunes  Mr.  Car 
negie  can  play  with  a  good  deal  of  dash  and 
spirit — although  he  seldom  attempts  to  render 
them  vocally — at  least  when  he  has  an  au 
dience. 

Another  melody-making  instrument  to  which 
Mr.  Carnegie  turns  is  one  consisting  of  Japanese 
bells — three  hollow  globes  of  metal  suspended 
[241] 


American  Authors  &  ^heir  Homes 

from  the  mouth  of  a  dragon  of  forbidding  mien. 
These  bells  are  also  manipulated  by  means  of  a 
little  mallet. 

Mr.  Carnegie  is  devoted  to  music  and  a  most 
munificent  patron  of  the  art.  One  of  his  friends, 
and  one  of  whom  he  is  very  fond,  is  Mr.  Walter 
Damrosch,  and  an  interesting  picture  in  the 
library — in  the  corner  devoted  to  the  muse  of 
music — is  a  photograph  of  Mr.  Damrosch,  upon 
the  margin  of  which  he  has  written,  in  pencil,  a 
few  bars  of  that  sentimental  air  from  "  The  Bo 
hemian  Girl,"  "Then  You'll  Remember  Me." 
Standing  guard  over  this  musical  corner  are 
bronze  busts  of  Wagner  and  Beethoven,  two 
favorite  composers  of  Mr.  Carnegie's. 

His  favorite  poet  is  Burns,  of  whose  works 
he  has  some  choice  editions.  Shakespeare,  too, 
one  sees  in  editions  of  various  kinds.  The  Wa- 
verley  Novels  are  resplendent  in  the  finest  of 
bindings,  and  Thackeray  blooms  afresh  in  blue 
and  gold.  Ruskin's  "  Sesame  and  Lilies  "  is  a 
favorite  of  Mr.  Carnegie's — a  book  which  he 
reads  and  re-reads.  One  set  of  shelves  is  given 
up  to  encyclopedias  and  works  on  botany,  in 
which  study  Mr.  Carnegie  is  intensely  inter 
ested.  Diogenes,  in  bronze,  with  his  lantern, 
illumines  this  corner  of  the  room.  In  a  copy 
[242] 


Andrew  Carnegie 

of  one  of  Herbert   Spencer's  works,  which   Mr. 
Spencer  sent  to  Mr.  Carnegie,  is  inscribed  : 

To  my  friend  Andrew  Carnegie  :  The  highest  truth 
he  sees  he  will  fearlessly  utter,  knowing  that,  let  what 
may  come  of  it,  he  is  thus  playing  his  right  part  in  the 
world  ;  knowing  that  if  he  can  effect  the  change  he  aims 
at,  well ;  if  not,  well  also,  though  not  so  well. 

The  drawer  of  the  library  table  holds  letters 
and  notes  from  many  people  distinguished  in 
the  literary  world.  To  the  mind  fond  of  detail 
it  may  be  interesting  to  know  that  many  of  the 
postal  cards  Mr.  Gladstone  had  such  a  fancy 
for  despatching  to  his  friends  have  found  a  rest 
ing-place  here.  His  writing,  by  the  way,  is  ex 
tremely  difficult  to  decipher  to  the  one  unfamiliar 
with  his  peculiar  chirography. 

Pertinent  to  Gladstone's  article  on  Mr.  Car 
negie's  book,  "  The  Gospel  of  Wealth,"  to 
which  reply  was  made  by  Cardinal  Manning,  it 
may  be  said  that  Mr.  Carnegie  responded  in  a 
manuscript  of  about  8,000  words,  completed  in 
two  days,  so  very  rapidly  does  he  compose. 
John  Morley,  the  English  statesman,  is  another 
correspondent  who  sends  frequent  notes.  In 
one  he  returned  thanks  for  "  the  noble  bird  " — 
an  American  turkey — sent  by  Mr.  Carnegie  for  a 
Christmas  gift.  "  We  shall  drink  the  health  of 
[243] 


American  Authors  &  Thefr  Homes 

the  giver  and  recall  pleasant  days  together."  Mr. 
Morley  accompanied  the  Carnegies  upon  one  of 
their  coaching  trips. 

Among  the  pictures  hanging  upon  the  library 
wall  is  one  of  the  coaching  party  which  travelled 
from  Brighton  to  Inverness  in  1881.  Mr.  Car 
negie's  mother  occupies  the  seat  of  honor  at  his 
left.  Another  picture  is  that  of  Cluny  Castle, 
where  he  has  spent  several  summers.  Even 
here  he  has  usually  given  many  hours  daily  to 
his  books.  A  more  resplendent  home  than 
Cluny  Castle  is  now  his  Skibo  Castle. 

Mr.  Carnegie's  new  house  in  New  York,  now 
approaching  completion,  stands  at  Fifth  Avenue 
and  Ninetieth  Street.  The  entire  avenue  block 
front  is  devoted  to  house  and  grounds,  and  the 
lot  in  the  other  direction  has  a  still  greater 
dimension.  It  is  a  most  imposing  mansion  set 
on  an  imposing  site,  in  many  ways  the  most 
striking  private  residence  in  a  town  of  million 
aires.  Large  trees  have  been  transplanted  there 
to  furnish  shade.  A  costly  and  novel  process 
accomplished  what  seemed  the  impossible. 
Someone  has  counted  eighty  rooms  in  the 
house,  of  which  about  one-half  are  below  the 
main  floor.  Other  figures  pertaining  to  it  are 
that  the  heating  apparatus  cost  $110,000,  the 
[244] 


Andrew  Carnegie 

plumbing  $55,000,  and  the  organ  $16,000. 
The  telephones  number  twenty  and  the  supply  of 
coal  will  amount  to  200  tons  per  year.  In  order 
to  transport  the  coal  from  bin  to  furnace  a  min 
iature  railway  was  constructed,  with  a  car  hav 
ing  a  capacity  for  half  a  ton.  But  this  at  pres 
ent  is  not  the  home  of  Mr.  Carnegie.  Sometime 
in  the  year  1902  he  hopes  to  occupy  it.  Within 
its  walls,  perhaps,  he  will  write  more  books,  and 
devise  schemes  for  founding  more  libraries. 


Erander    Matthews 
In   West  End  Avenue,  New  York 


BY  MR.   MATTHEWS 

Born    in    1852  in    Ne-w    Orleans 

The  Theatres  in  Paris.      1 880. 

French  Dramatists  of  the  Nineteenth  Century.      1881. 

Tom  Paulding.      1892. 

In  the  Vestibule  Limited.      1892. 

Studies  of  the  Stage.      1894. 

Vignettes  of  Manhattan.      1894. 

Bookbindings,  Old  and  New.      1895. 

Aspects  of  Fiction.      1896. 

His  Father's  Son.      1896. 

A  Confident  To-morrow.      1899. 

The  Action  and  The  Word.      1900. 

The  Historical  Novel  and  Other  Essays.      1901. 


XIX 

Brander    Matthews 
In  West   End  Avenue,  New  Tork 

RANDER  MATTHEWS,  Professor 
of  Dramatic  Literature  in  Columbia 
University,  is  the  Brander  Matthews 
who  has  been  the  friend  of  players  for  years,  also 
an  eminent  first-nighter,  though  not  a  critic  for 
a  reason  hereafter  given ;  an  actor  by  instinct, 
a  stage  manager,  he  would  be  if  not  too  busy, 
an  expert  sought  for  in  pantomime  and  parlor 
burlesque ;  a  story-teller,  essayist,  and  play 
wright — surely  a  chronicle  of  interests  and  ac 
tivities  quite  long  enough. 

The  temptation  is  for  one  to  ask  why  he  is 
a  professor  when  he  finds  success  easily  and 
securely  in  literary  work.  One  is  apt  to  asso 
ciate  a  college  professorship  with  drudgery,  more 
especially  since  there  comes  a  complaint  of  it 
in  the  occasional  magazine  article.  Mr.  Mat 
thews  prepares  and  delivers  his  lectures  and 
constructs  his  examination  papers  for  what  he 
gets  out  of  the  task.  There  is  a  reciprocal 
benefit  in  the  relation  of  teacher  and  pupil  as 
maintained  in  courses  at  college.  This  may 
[249] 


American  Authors   6?  'Their  Homes 

chiefly  be  in  the  post-graduate  departments,  but 
to  a  degree  it  exists  in  the  others. 

However  Mr.  Matthews  may  value  what  he 
gets  from  his  classes,  and  undoubted  as  is  his 
achievement  as  an  instructor,  it  is  not  this  side 
of  the  man  which  lends  chief  interest  to  his 
home  and  his  personality.  The  writer  ever  at 
tracts  more  attention  than  the  teacher.  The 
audience  is  larger,  the  stage  is  better  set  to  catch 
the  eye,  the  production  is  of  greater  human  in 
terest. 

It  is  likely  that  the  habit  of  filing  for  preser 
vation  materials  for  work  so  carefully  followed 
to-day  by  Mr.  Matthews  was  a  habit  formed 
thirty  years  ago.  Drawer  after  drawer  of  the 
two  or  three  desks  at  which  Mr.  Matthews 
writes  is  filled  to  overflowing  with  envelopes  of 
goodly  size.  The  word  upon  the  outside  is  an 
index  to  the  contents.  An  inquisitive  glance 
at  the  collection  is  entertaining  —  perhaps  the 
more  so  because  a  trifle  impertinent.  The 
name  of  a  book  on  the  envelope  draws  your  at 
tention. 

You  open  the  flap   and   lo  !   there   appears  a 

contract,  duly  signed  and  sealed  by  and  between 

James  Brander  Matthews,  author,  and  Messrs. 

Doe  and   Roe,  publishers.     A  letter  may  next 

[250] 


Brander  Matthews 

be  found  from  the  publishers  acknowledging  re 
ceipt  of  manuscript ;  then  a  friendly  line  of 
criticism  in  advance  of  publication  from  a  per 
sonal  acquaintance,  say  Andrew  Lang ;  then  a 
big  bundle  of  hastily  written  pencil  notes,  a 
scrap  of  dialogue,  a  character  sketch,  a  passing 
glimpse  of  one  of  nature's  moods,  maybe  a 
jumble  of  words — "tramp — Union  Square — 
night — morning — waked  by  twitter  of  birds — 
also  policemen's  club  on  boot  soles  ;  "  next  a 
parcel  of  newspaper  clippings.  You  may  be 
startled,  but  are  scarcely  bewildered,  by  the  va 
riety  and  incoherence  of  all  this. 

Every  scrap  of  paper  in  that  envelope  is,  or 
was  once,  a  vitally  necessary  part  of  the  book 
or  subject  named  on  the  outside.  Look  at  the 
scraps  again,  and  it  becomes  apparent  that  most 
of  them  were  thrust  under  cover  months  and 
even  years  before  pen  touched  paper  in  the 
writing  of  the  book  itself.  Let  an  idea,  an  im 
pression,  a  face,  a  fact,  a  fancy,  come  swiftly 
within  range,  and  let  any  one  of  these  bear 
relationship  to  the  essay,  play,  or  story  that 
Brander  Matthews  tells  himself  he  will  write 
one  day,  and  swiftly  it  finds  its  way  in  some 
brief  form  to  one  of  those  labeled  envelopes 
where  already  lie  its  congenial  fellows.  There 
[251] 


American  Authors  &  ^heir  Homes 

with  the  others  it  loiters  forgotten  and  neglect 
ed  until  the  time  and  tide  of  literary  impulse 
shall  reach  and  carry  it  with  the  others  into  ac 
tivity  and  usefulness. 

For  one  subject,  and  doubtless  the  one  most 
constantly  in  his  thought,  the  one  which  it  is 
fair  to  prophesy,  will  some  day  be  approached 
with  his  maturest  effort,  there  is  no  envelope. 
Four  hundred  volumes  relating  to  it  rest  in  ex 
clusive  dignity  and  patrician  dress  in  a  cherished 
section  of  the  bookshelves.  When  asked  why, 
with  all  this  evident  favoritism  there  are  no 
materials  gathered  and  laid  away  for  the  prom 
ised  work  on  Moliere,  Mr.  Matthews  replies 
that  his  subject  is  too  great  for  actual  work  as 
yet.  He  must  not  so  much  as  begin  the  prep 
aration  for  original  labor  until  the  study  of  the 
great  man,  of  all  that  influenced  him,  of  all  that 
he  influenced,  is  fairly  under  way.  This,  from 
the  college  professor  who  has  two  courses  of 
lectures  on  Moliere,  and  (owning  almost  every 
edition  of  the  French  dramatist,  and  a  great 
many  books  printed  about  him)  was  provocative 
of  a  question  answered  thus  : 

"  No,  not  a  greater  subject  than  Shakespeare, 
but  so  easily  contrasted  with  him  as  to  make 
Moliere  of  the  greatest  possible  interest.  For 
[252] 


Brander  Matthews 

instance,  Shakespeare  had  no  appreciable  influ 
ence  upon  modern  comedy,  and  never  had,  except, 
perhaps,  with  De  Musset.  Moliere's  influence 
on  it,  however,  has  always  existed  and  will  al 
ways  be  felt.  '  Mrs.  Tanqueray  '  is  a  modern 
instance." 

Mr.  Matthews's  house  on  West  End  Avenue 
is  delightfully  situated  and  elegantly  comfortable. 
There  is,  one  would  say,  a  characteristic  arrange 
ment  of  the  interior  for  the  purposes  of  living, 
showing  harmony  of  tastes  in  the  members  of 
the  family.  The  rooms  set  apart  for  the  books 
and  papers  are  not  distinctively  dissimilar  from 
the  others,  except  that  they  contain  more  books 
and  papers.  The  two  libraries  might  serve  as 
drawing-rooms  should  occasion  require.  Living- 
rooms  and  parlors  would  be  convenient  and 
agreeable  places  in  which  to  write.  Of  this 
home  it  cannot  be  said  that  its  family  and  social 
life  and  its  literary  dens  are  things  apart,  or  that 
the  influence  of  one  is  greater  or  less  than  that 
of  the  other.  Yet  the  guest  of  an  evening  will 
like  to  stay  longest  where  the  books  are,  for  here 
are  other  treasures  also. 

It  is  a  whim  —  and  a  pleasant  one — of  Mr. 
Matthews  to  have  an  occasional  favorite  book 
bound  in  a  manner  characteristic  of  its  author 
[253] 


American  Authors   &  ^heir  Homes 

or  suggestive  of  its  contents.  He  has  many 
such,  and  the  labor  of  love  shows  considerable 
ingenuity  and  good  taste.  There  is  a  collection 
of  poems  edited  by  Mr.  Matthews  in  a  copy 
of  which  he  has  had  bound  the  original  manu 
script  copy  sent  him  by  the  writers,  as  well  as 
autograph  letters  about  the  book  in  critical  and 
complimentary  vein.  There  are,  besides,  in  this 
book  marginal  illustrations  of  the  text  by  artists 
into  whose  hands  the  volume  has  come  in  its 
travels. 

Next  in  number  to  the  Moliere  books  are  to 
be  counted  Sheridan's  works.  There  is,  of 
course,  a  varied  collection  of  volumes  relating 
to  dramatic  criticism  and  the  stage  and  the  his 
tory  and  criticism  of  English  literature.  The 
purely  theatrical  side  of  tragedy  and  comedy  in 
playwriting  is  a  subject  of  the  greatest  possible 
interest  to  Mr.  Matthews.  In  his  Moliere  lect 
ure  courses  he  goes  deeply  into  the  dramatic 
side  of  his  subject,  the  stage  setting,  and  details 
of  scenic  presentation. 

It  is  a  matter  of  surprise  that,  equipped  for 
the  work  by  natural  inclination  and  extensive 
study,  he  steadily  refuses  to  be  a  critic  of  cur 
rent  drama.  The  reason  lies  in  his  membership 
in  The  Players.  It  was  Mr.  Booth's  expressed 
[254] 


Brander  Matthews 

wish,  at  the  inception  of  the  club  and  at  the 
Delmonico  luncheon,  where,  to  a  score  of  friends 
he  made  known  his  intentions  regarding  his 
ultimate  gifts,  that  no  critic  of  the  current  stage 
be  admitted  to  membership. 

It  appears  that  the  constitution  of  The  Players 
is  mainly  the  expression  of  Mr.  Booth's  wishes. 
This,  as  much  as  any  of  its  provisions,  has  been 
strictly  adhered  to.  The  wisdom  of  it  is  clear. 
One  may  criticise  a  picture,  a  book,  or  the  text 
of  a  play  freely,  acrimoniously,  and  afterward 
dine  with  the  author,  the  artist,  or  the  play 
wright.  Would  the  dinner  reach  dessert  in 
comfort  had  the  actor  himself  been  the  subject 
of  criticism  ?  "  There  is  a  difference,"  says 
Mr.  Matthews.  "  It  is  one  thing  to  talk  about 
things  a  man  creates  ;  quite  another  thing  to 
express  an  opinion  of  his  own  personality  in 
what  he  creates."  So  The  Players  gains  a  con 
sistent  member  and  the  public  loses  an  enlight 
ened  critic. 

The  greater  part  of  Mr.  Matthews's  literary 
work  is  done  between  ten  and  one  o'clock  of 
the  day.  His  afternoons  are  filled  by  college 
duties,  and  he  rarely  writes  in  the  evening.  "  I 
don't  write  much,"  he  says ;  "  perhaps  a  hun 
dred  thousand  words  in  a  year."  Thrice  fortu- 
[255] 


American  Authors  &  ^fheir  Homes 

nate  man.  He  seldom  writes  upon  request,  and 
never  through  necessity.  He  writes  when  and 
about  what  he  pleases. 

The  house  in  West  End  Avenue  has  an 
"  American  basement."  In  one  of  the  rooms 
stands  a  comfortably  massive  desk,  ancient,  and 
honorable  in  appearance  and  history.  It  be 
longed  to  the  father  of  the  author,  and  was  for 
years  used  in  his  Wall  Street  office.  Mr.  Mat 
thews  writes  often  here  and  on  the  day  of  this 
visit  there  lay  upon  this  desk  of  yesterday  the 
type-set  sheets  of  a  new  novel  from  Mr.  Mat- 
thews's  hands. 


[256] 


John  Kendrick  Bangs 
In  Tankers^  New  Tork 


BY  MR.   BANGS 
Born  in  1862  in   TTonkerst  N.   "f. 

Tiddleywink  Tales.      1891. 

Half  Hours  with  Jimmieboy.      1893. 

Coffee  and  Repartee.      1893. 

The  Water  Ghost  and  Others.      1894. 

Mr.  Bonaparte  of  Corsica.      1895. 

The  Idiot.      1895. 

A  Rebellious  Heroine.      1896. 

A  House-Boat  on  the  Styx.      1896. 

Three  Weeks  in  Politics.      1897. 

The  Pursuit  of  the  House-Boat.      1898. 

Ghosts  I  Have  Met  and  Some  Others.      I 

The  Booming  of  Acre  Hill.      1900. 

The  Idiot  at  Home.      1901. 


XX 

Kendrick  Bangs 
In  Tonkers,  New  York 

A  SPACIOUS,  light,  and  roomy  villa  on 
a  high  bluff  overlooking  the  Hudson 
River  at  Yonkers  is  the  residence  of 
John  Kendrick  Bangs,  author,  editor,  and  hu 
morist.  A  short  drive  from  the  New  York 
Central  station  lands  one  at  the  door  of  Mr. 
Bangs's  home,  which  is  one  of  a  row  of  detached 
villas  standing  in  large  lots  of  ground.  The 
house  faces  east  and  west,  and  on  the  west  the 
ground  slopes  in  terraces  to  the  Hudson.  From 
North  Broadway  on  the  east,  or  from  Hudson 
Terrace,  to  which  the  land  extends  on  the  west, 
a  magnificent  view  is  obtained  of  the  Palisades. 

A  broad  carriage  road  and  a  stone  footpath 
sweep  in  semicircles  from  the  street  to  the  house. 
In  the  grounds  are  set  flower-beds,  hedges,  and 
numerous  young  trees.  The  latter  do  not  afford 
much  shade  as  yet,  but  Mr.  Bangs  whimsically 
observes  that  they  will  probably  be  of  great 
benefit  to  his  grandchildren. 

As  the  visitor  drives  up,  three  fine  lads,  the 
eldest  about  thirteen,  may  be  seen  playing  on 
[259! 


American  Authors   &  Their  Homes 

the  lawn.  Mr.  Bangs,  when  he  expects  you, 
may  open  the  door  himself  and  will  extend  a 
hearty  welcome. 

The  visitor  may  ask  :  "  Are  those  three  boys 
yours  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  the  author  has  been  known  to  reply  ; 
"  the  three  boys  and  the  three  kittens.  The 
latter  are  D'Artagnan,  Porthos,  and  Aramis." 

"  But    where     is    Athos  ? "    he    was     asked. 

"  Oh,  he  was  one  too  many ;  so  we  gave 
him  to  the  laundress." 

On  entering  the  house  one  is  struck  by  its 
roominess  and  the  general  literary  and  artistic 
air  that  pervades  it.  The  hall  is  large  and 
square  and  decorated  with  water-colors  and  orig 
inal  drawings  in  pen  and  ink.  The  entire  south 
end  is  devoted  to  Mr.  Bangs's  library,  and  in  the 
west  corner  of  this  he  writes  books  and  maga 
zine  articles. 

Three  sides  are  lined  with  books  and  pictures, 
and  the  fourth,  which  overlooks  the  Hudson, 
opens  upon  a  large  porch,  to  which  Mr.  Bangs 
moves  his  desk  in  summer.  Here,  with  the 
great  river  rolling  beneath  him,  nothing  to  shut 
out  the  sky,  and  with  a  view  of  the  full  length 
of  the  Palisades  before  him,  he  pens  his  work. 
Though  still  young,  he  has  written  thirty  books. 
[260] 


John  Kendrick  Bangs 

Of  "  The  House  Boat  on  the  Styx  "  there  have 
been  more  than  90,000  copies  sold  in  this  coun 
try  and  England,  and  of  "  Coffee  and  Repartee  " 
more  than  75,000. 

His  first  book  was  "  Roger  Camerden,"  which 
he  published  anonymously.  Among  his  latest 
are  "  Peeps  at  People,"  a  series  of  sketches  of 
travel ;  "  The  Idiot  at  Home,"  "  The  Dream 
ers,"  "  Olympian  Nights,"  and  "  With  the 
Libretti."  "  Southern  Humorists  "  is  a  volume 
he  has  in  preparation. 

Mr.  Bangs  at  one  time  edited  Literature,  wrote 
the  literary  notes  for  Harper's  Magazine,  and 
had  charge  of  the  Editor's  Drawer  in  the  same 
periodical.  He  has  also  written  poems  and 
sketches  for  Harper's  Bazar.  Scores  of  maga 
zine  articles  and  verses,  mostly  of  a  humorous 
character,  have  come  from  his  pen.  He  is  now 
the  editor  of  Harper's  Weekly. 

He  says  modestly  that  he  inherits  his  taste 
for  literature  and  his  humor  from  his  father, 
Francis  N.  Bangs,  the  lawyer,  who  was  formerly 
President  of  the  Bar  Association.  He  began  to 
write  when  seven  years  old.  When  about  nine 
he  sent  a  letter  from  the  country  to  his  father, 
beginning  "  Dear  Papa  "  and  then  for  the  rest 
of  the  letter  copied  the  Declaration  of  Indepen- 
[261] 


American  Authors  &  ^heir  Homes 

dence.  At  ten  he  read  a  fairy  story  called 
"  Thumbling."  He  paraphrased  it,  changed 
the  name  to  "  Fingerling,"  and  then  sent  it  to 
an  amateur  paper  of  which  his  brother  was  the 
editor.  For  this  he  received  such  a  lecture  on 
the  immorality  of  plagiarism  that  he  says  he  has 
never  forgotten  it. 

After  graduation  from  Columbia  he  studied 
law  in  his  father's  office,  but  felt  no  inclination 
for  its  practice.  He  preferred  to  devote  himself 
to  a  literary  career,  and  in  this  field  has  become 
one  of  the  most  successful  and  popular  of  the 
younger  authors.  For  some  time  he  was  asso 
ciate  editor  of  Life,  but  of  late  years  has  written 
almost  entirely  for  the  Harper  publications. 

Mr.  Bangs's  arrangement  of  his  time  is  me 
thodical.  Monday  and  Tuesday  he  spends  in 
Franklin  Square.  Wednesday  and  Thursday 
he  remains  at  home  and  writes  from  9  A.M. 
until  noon.  Friday  and  Saturday  he  devotes  to 
various  odds  and  ends  of  business  and  to  exer 
cise.  He  writes  about  2,000  words  for  a  morn 
ing's  work.  His  literary  notes  for  Harper's 
Magazine  alone  used  to  represent  about  50,000 
words  a  year. 

How  he  manages  to  do  so  much  work  might 
surprise  one  who  did  not  know  his  methodical 
[262  ] 


John  Kendrick  Bangs 

habits.  In  addition  to  his  regular  work  he  has 
given  as  many  as  forty  lectures  and  readings  during 
a  year,not  to  mention  many  after-dinner  speeches. 
He  is  also  president  of  a  large  private  school, 
Trustee  of  the  Yonkers  Public  Library,  and 
was  formerly  a  member  of  the  Board  of  Educa 
tion  in  Yonkers.  A  few  years  ago  he  ran  for 
Mayor  of  Yonkers,  but,  as  he  says,  escaped  the 
nuisance  of  holding  office.  His  political  expe 
riences  he  gave  to  the  world  in  the  book  called 
"  Three  Weeks  in  Politics."  He  keeps  in  his 
house  a  suspicious-looking  brown  jug  bearing  a 
Scotch  label,  and  says  it  was  his  principal  assist 
ant  during  his  political  campaign. 

Mr.  Bangs  is  a  picture  of  vigorous  health. 
He  is  an  enthusiastic  golfer,  playing  at  the 
Ardsley  and  St.  Andrew's  links.  He  is  also  a 
bicyclist,  but  the  roads  around  Yonkers  are  so 
steep  and  hilly  that  he  cannot  do  much  wheel 
ing  in  that  neighborhood.  He  delights  in  walk 
ing,  and  recalls  with  delight  several  walks  he 
had  with  Conan  Doyle  when  he  visited  that 
writer,  a  few  years  ago  at  his  home  near  Hasle- 
mere,  thirty  miles  from  London. 

The  library  of  Mr.  Bangs  includes  the  works  of 
the  standard  modern  authors  and  some  of  the  an 
cient  classics.  History,  fiction,  poetry,  and  essays 
[263] 


American  Authors  &  T'hefr  Homes 

are  found  side  by  side.  One  corner  is  devoted 
to  folk-lore,  myths,  fairy  tales,  and  legends,  of 
which  he  is  very  fond  ;  another  is  filled  with 
the  works  of  noted  illustrators,  including  many 
first  and  rare  editions  of  Cruikshank,  Leech,  H. 
K.  Browne  ("  Phiz  "),  and  others. 

He  seems  to  have  every  drawing  that  Cruik 
shank  ever  made,  including  several  originals. 
One  of  the  oddest  pictures  is  a  portrait  of  Cruik 
shank,  drawn  by  himself  on  the  back  of  an  en 
velope  bearing  his  own  address.  The  heavy 
stroke  of  the  letter  C  shows  through  the  en 
velope  and  forms  the  huge  Roman  nose  of  the 
artist  in  the  portrait.  Another  old  picture  was 
drawn  by  Cruikshank  on  the  back  of  a  proof- 
slip.  The  matter  from  which  the  proof  was 
taken  Mr.  Bangs  has  discovered  in  one  of  the 
books  in  his  collection. 

Surrounding  Mr.  Bangs's  desk  are  many 
works  of  reference,  and  directly  in  front  of  it  is 
a  telephone,  with  which  he  can  communicate 
with  his  office  in  Franklin  Square  at  any  time.  In 
another  corner  are  presentation  copies  of  books 
from  Anthony  Hope,  Conan  Doyle,  and  other 
authors.  A  complete  set  of  Robert  Grant's 
books,  which  Mr.  Bangs  won  from  Grant  at 
golf,  occupies  a  prominent  position.  Mr. 
[264] 


"John  Kendrick  Bangs 

Bangs  confesses,  under  the  same  conditions, 
that  Judge  Grant  in  turn  has  won  a  set  of  his 
books. 

A  handsome  fireplace  bears  the  inscription 
"  Hie  Habitat  Felicitas"  (Here  Dwells  Happi 
ness).  Over  the  mantel  is  a  replica  in  plaster 
of  horses  from  the  Parthenon.  On  each  side 
of  this  is  a  reproduction  of  the  device  of  John 
Caxton,  representing  the  Sage  taking  an  apple 
from  the  serpent  in  the  Garden  of  Eden. 

"That  is  Hall  Caine  and  the  original  Chris 
tian,"  said  Mr.  Bangs  with  a  smile. 

The  other  window  represents  the  device  of 
Simon  Vostres,  another  famous  printer. 

At  the  east  end  of  the  room  are  two  stained- 
glass  windows,  representing  the  evolution  of  a 
book.  The  first  contains  a  lamp  and  a  roll  of 
manuscript,  and  the  second  a  lamp  and  printed 
book. 

"  You  see,  the  lamp  is  all  ready  to  burn  either 
the  manuscript  or  the  book,"  explained  Mr. 
Bangs. 

The  walls  of  the  library  are  covered  with 
pictures.  In  one  corner  is  an  original  drawing 
in  colors,  by  Cruikshank,  "Arthur  O'Leary." 
In  another  is  an  original  sketch  by  Leech  of 
"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Caudle."  Opposite  these  is 
[265] 


American  Authors  &  rfheir  Homes 

a  large  original  by  Charles  Dana  Gibson, 
which  Mr.  Bangs  considers  one  of  his  best 
works. 

Across  the  hall  is  a  room  containing  a  large 
book-case,  in  which  are  Mr.  Bangs's  choicest 
literary  treasures.  Among  these  are  the  original 
first  editions  of  "  Pickwick  Papers,"  "  Vanity 
Fair,"  and  "  The  Newcombs,"  in  monthly 
parts.  They  are  all  in  fine  condition,  and  are 
kept  in  stout  cardboard  and  leather  cases. 
"  Pickwick  "  has  the  original  green  paper  cov 
ers,  which  varied  considerably  in  tint  as  the 
work  was  published.  Thackeray's  works  are  in 
yellow  paper.  A  fine  edition  of  Maxwell's 
"  History  of  the  Irish  Rebellion  of  1798,"  with 
extra  illustrations,  is  in  this  case.  Mr.  Bangs 
purchased  it  in  London  for  just  one-half  what 
a  New  York  dealer  asked  him  for  the  same 
work. 

On  the  terrace  west  of  the  house  is  a  tennis- 
court,  and  beyond  this  a  vegetable  garden. 

"  Do  you  ever  work  in  your  garden  ?  "  he  was 
asked. 

"  Oh,  no,"  was  the  reply  ;  "  for  one  reason  I 
have  no  time,  and  for  another  I  have  no  agricul 
tural  talent." 

A  rather  odd  feature  of  Mr.  Bangs's  suburban 
[266] 


John  Kendrick  Bangs 

life  is  that  he  has  no  distinct  name  for  his 
home. 

"  I  was  reading  a  book  called  c  Windyhaugh  ' 
last  week,"  he  said, "  and  thought  it  would  be  a 
good  name  for  our  place,  as  the  wind  blows 
very  lively  up  here  sometimes;  but  we  are  set 
upon  a  hill  and  the  haugh  part  would  hardly  be 
appropriate.  The  names  of  most  suburban 
homes  are,  as  a  rule,  either  commonplace  or 
affected,  and  I  want  something  appropriate  and 
original.  A  friend  has  suggested  '  Copymere,' 
but  this  might  be  considered  too  technical." 

As  the  visitor  rose  to  take  leave,  Mr.  Bangs 
offered  to  walk  through  Glenwood,  a  part  of 
Yonkers,  and  point  out  various  objects  of  in 
terest.  It  was  a  glorious  spring  day,  and  a 
dogwood  tree  was  just  bursting  into  bloom. 
Maples  and  willows  were  a  vivid  green,  and  the 
buds  on  the  horse-chestnuts  displayed  feathery 
plumes. 

Down  the  street  not  far  from  Mr.  Bangs's 
house,  he  pointed  out  the  large  school  of  which 
he  is  president.  Across  the  way,  on  top  of  a 
high  hill,  skilfully  terraced,  is  the  former  resi 
dence  of  the  late  William  Allen  Butler,  the  ven 
erable  lawyer  and  author  of  "  Nothing  to  Wear." 
Near  this  is  a  handsome  church,  in  which  Mr. 

f267] 


American  Authors  &  Their  Homes 

Bangs  gave  his   first   public   reading    from    his 
works. 

The  station  was  now  soon  reached,  and  after 
a  hearty  handshake,  the  visitor  was  soon  whirl 
ing  back  to  New  York,  while  the  author  returned 
to  his  home. 


[268] 


Henry  Mills  Alden 
In  Metuchen,  N.  J. 


BY    MR.    ALDEN 
Born  in  l8j6,  near  Danty,   Vt. 

The  Structure  of  Paganism.      1864. 
God  in  His  World.      1890. 
A  Study  of  Death.      1895. 


XXI 

Henry  Mills  Alden 
In  Metuchen,  N.  J. 

THERE  is  no  one  in  America  in  whom 
the  literature-loving  world  might  take 
a  more  excusable  personal  interest 
than  Henry  M.  Alden,  who  has  been  for  more 
than  thirty  years  editor  of  the  oldest,  and  still 
one  of  the  foremost,  of  the  monthly  magazines 
— Harper's.  He  is  also  the  author  of  two 
books  of  great  beauty,  power,  and  imagination — 
"  God  in  His  World"  and  «  A  Study  of  Death." 
Yet,  when  one  sits  down  to  describe  him  "  at 
home  "  the  task  seems  by  no  means  easy,  be 
cause  Mr.  Alden  at  home  is  not  conspicuous 
among  other  gentlemen  of  scholarly  tastes  and 
in  comfortable  circumstances. 

When,  some  thirty-five  years  ago,  he  came  to 
New  York,  and,  after  a  period  of  teaching  and 
newspaper  editorial  work,  began  his  services 
with  the  Harpers,  he  and  Mrs.  Alden  looked 
about  for  a  suburban  residence,  and  hit  upon 
Metuchen,  N.  J.,  largely  by  the  accident  of 
having  visited  acquaintances  there.  This  rural 
village,  twenty-six  miles  southwest  of  New 
[271] 


American  Authors  &  Their  Homes 

York  on  the  Pennsylvania  Railroad,  still  remains 
his  home,  although  Mrs.  Alden  has  since  died. 
Her  daughters  were  afterward  mistresses  of  the 
house.  Recently  Mr.  Alden  has  married  again. 

The  house  is  a  large,  low  rambling  structure, 
which  has  grown  with  the  family.  An  addition 
has  been  made  here,  an  extension  there,  and  a 
queer  inclosure  of  a  porch  in  another  place. 
Should  one  of  those  restless  guests  who  occa 
sionally  trouble  us  all  through  a  desire  to  rise 
and  wander  about  the  house  before  the  rest  of 
the  inmates  are  up,  ever  indulge  his  propensities 
in  this  house,  he  will  probably  get  lost.  But  if 
he  can  make  his  way  to  the  parlor  he  will  find 
space  enough  to  satisfy  him.  It  is  an  immense 
room  with  long  French  windows  dropping  to 
the  floor.  A  big,  hospitable  fireplace  is  there. 
A  thoroughly  comfortable  and  homelike  air  per 
vades  every  one  of  its  nooks  and  corners,  which 
are  adorned  with  pretty  artistic  things  and  over 
flowing  with  books  and  periodicals. 

But  the  literary  pilgrim  will  take  a  keener  in 
terest  in  Mr.  Alden's  own  library  or  study.  It 
opens  out  of  the  parlor  and  is  the  place  where 
this  author  does  his  work  ;  and  this  editor  too, 
sometimes,  for  many  an  anxious  contributor 
whose  manuscript  has  gone  so  far  as  to  be  set 
[272] 


Henry  Mills  Alden 

aside  for  a  second  reading — and  that  happens 
only  when  there  is  hope  for  it — has  met  his 
happy  fate,  so  to  speak,  under  the  shaded  lamp 
of  the  big  study-table  in  this  big  room.  Mr. 
Alden's  fondness  for  spaciousness  at  home  is 
perhaps  due  to  the  excessively  restricted  office 
quarters  he  has  always  occupied  in  New  York — 
one  of  the  smallest  editorial  rooms  in  the  world. 

Portraits  of  American  men  of  letters  are  the 
principal  adornments  of  the  library.  Born  on  a 
farm  in  Vermont,  from  a  stock  descended  from 
John  Alden  of  the  Mayflower,  whose  romance 
Longfellow  utilized  so  gracefully,  turning  natur 
ally  to  Williams  College,  whose  second  president 
was  his  mother's  uncle  (Zephaniah  Moore)  and 
being  graduated  there  in  1857,  Mr.  Alden  found 
himself  with  so  strong  an  inclination  toward 
the  classics  that  he  immediately  went  to  Ando- 
ver  to  continue  his  studies,  because  Andover  then 
had  the  best  library  of  Greek  literature  in  the 
country. 

These  pleasant  days  of  poring  over  the  old 
masters  in  the  ancient  town  developed  in  his 
mind  two  papers  on  the  Eleusinian  mysteries, 
which  he  carried  to  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  then 
in  charge  of  James  Russell  Lowell,  whose  ac 
ceptance  of  them  encouraged  him  to  submit 
[273] 


American  Authors  &  Their  Homes 

other  papers  further  developing  the  theme. 
These  additional  papers  fell  into  the  hands  of 
Mr.  James  T.  Field. 

Though  the  need  of  earning  a  living  made 
Mr.  Alden  a  teacher  or  editor  in  various  capaci 
ties  before  he  finally  was  settled  at  the  desk  of 
Harper's  Monthly  in  1869,  he  has  always  been 
at  heart  and  at  home  a  scholar,  and  it  is  un 
doubtedly  a  great  loss  to  classical  scholarship 
that  he  needed  or  chose  to  become  so  much  a 
man  of  affairs.  None  in  the  long  course  of 
grandly  instructive  lectures  delivered  winter 
after  winter  before  the  Lowell  Institute  of  Bos 
ton  has  exceeded  in  richness  of  learning  and 
enlightenment  Mr.  Alden's  course  of  1863—64 
on  "  The  Structure  of  Paganism." 

The  books  in  Mr.  Alden's  library  illustrate 
this  bent  in  his  mind.  They  are  not  very  nu 
merous,  filling  a  few  low  book-cases,  but  they 
form  a  company  singularly  select.  There  are 
handsome  complete  sets  of  most  of  the  standard 
authors,  as  might  be  expected,  and  many  mis 
cellaneous  books  of  merit,  but  the  honors  of  the 
shelves  belong  to  noble  editions  of  the  ancient 
classics  and  of  the  masters  of  philosophy  and 
belles-lettres.  It  is  the  loving  collection  of  a 
man  of  letters  and  a  scholar,  who,  having  the 
[274] 


Henry  Mills  Alden 

product  of  the  presses  of  the  world  flowing  daily 
past  his  elbow,  has  taken  here  and  there  only 
what  seemed  to  him  precious. 

Out  of  such  studies  and  meditations  and  in 
•this  quiet  place  ripened  the  exquisite  chapters  of 
"  God  in  His  World,"  published  in  1890,  and 
later,  under  the  shadow  of  a  great  sorrow,  the 
subtle  and  beautiful  consolation  to  be  read  in 
his  "Study  of  Death,"  published  in  1895.  A 
house  where  two  such  books  were  penned 
would  have  a  claim  on  our  reverence  sufficient 
in  itself. 

Each  morning  for  five  days  of  each  week  Mr. 
Alden  breakfasts  early  enough  to  drive  to  the 
station  and  take  a  train  that  will  land  him  in 
New  York  by  nine  o'clock.  Then  comes  un 
remitting  work  until  four  in  the  afternoon,  when 
he  goes  back,  and  if  the  weather  is  good  takes 
a  drive  until  dinner-time. 

It  is  in  his  public  editorial  room  in  Franklin 
Square  that  one  feels  more  at  liberty  to  speak  of 
the  man  and  his  ways  than  at  the  domestic 
hearth  in  Metuchen.  Upon  the  second  floor  of 
the  Harpers'  great  iron  building,  where  the  roar 
of  presses  trembles  unceasingly  in  the  ear  at 
one  end  and  the  clangor  of  endless  passing  trains 
on  the  elevated  railway  jars  upon  it  at  the  other, 
[275] 


American  Authors  &  'Their  Homes 

is  lodged  the  editorial  force  of  the  great  publish 
ers.  To  reach  it  you  must  climb  up  a  cork 
screw-like  staircase  in  a  tower  and  cross  a  little 
iron  bridge.  Then  you  enter  a  long  room  whose 
walls  are  completely  covered  with  reference 
books.  At  one  of  the  front  corners,  which  has 
remained  unchanged  during  all  the  various  re 
arrangements  of  other  things,  is  the  sanctum 
sanctorum  of  The  Magazine. 

It  is  nothing  but  a  box,  smaller  than  any  of 
the  hall  bed-rooms  in  which  so  many  a  strug 
gling  young  enthusiast  has  toiled  for  admission 
to  its  doorless  portal,  as  if  it  were  the  temple  of 
fame,  piled  high  with  no  one  but  its  owner 
knows  what — an  old  desk  strewn  with  letters 
and  proofs ;  a  little  nook  of  shelves  heaped  with 
odds  and  ends  of  books  and  papers  ;  one  chair 
in  a  tight  corner  by  the  door,  where  a  single 
visitor  may  sit  down  and  only  space  enough  be 
sides  for  the  editor  himself  and  his  belongings. 
Anyone  can  see  at  a  glance  that  there  is  no 
room  here  for  idlers,  and  the  clever  way  in  which 
a  visitor  who  has  stayed  a  moment  too  long  is 
literally  crowded  out,  without  knowing  or  feeling 
it,  is  something  worth  seeing.  Yet  the  door  is 
always  open,  and  no  editor  in  the  city  is  more 
accessible  or  more  kind. 

[276] 


Henry  Mills  Alden 

Into  this  bare  and  dusty  little  corner  closet 
come  from  sixteen  to  eighteen  thousand  manu 
scripts  a  year,  offered  for  publication  in  the 
Magazine  or  in  book  form,  for  Mr.  Alden  is 
one  of  the  literary  advisers  of  the  house.  Of 
these  it  would  be  physically  impossible  to  use 
more  than  200  or  so,  were  the  whole  space 
of  the  annual  volume  given  to  them  ;  but  serial 
stories  and  prearranged  articles  (as  the  ma 
jority  now  are)  and  the  need  of  meeting  the 
ever-shifting  current  of  public  events  and  opin 
ions  by  promptly  treating  what  are  called 
"  timely "  topics  reduce  the  margin  left  for 
casual  contributions  to  very  narrow  dimensions 
indeed,  so  that  it  is  wonderful  that  any  room 
remains  at  all.  This  has  been  said  over  and 
over,  yet  the  stream  of  receipts  increases  as  the 
country  grows  and  learning  spreads. 

Nevertheless,  Mr.  Alden  looks  at  every  one  of 
these  hopeful  manuscripts.  The  title,  the  bulk, 
or  some  other  outside  feature  will  prohibit  from 
publication  a  great  many  without  regard  to 
contents,  and  a  very  brief  examination  shows 
the  unfitness  for  his  purpose  of  a  great  majority 
of  the  remainder,  most  of  which  go  back  to  their 
writers  on  the  day  following  their  receipt ;  but 
now  and  then  there  is  one  that  looks  promising, 
[277] 


American  Authors  &  rfheir  Homes 

and  this  is  laid  aside  until  some  day  when  it  gets 
a  thorough  reading — very  likely  at  home  under 
the  evening  lamp — and  then  the  writer  hears 
from  it  by  a  check  from  Harper  &  Bros.,  or  by 
one  of  Mr.  Alden's  kindly  notes. 


[278] 


Ernest  Seton-Thompson 
In  Bryant  Park,  N.  Y. 


BY    MR.    SETON-THOMPSON 

Born  in  1860  in  Shields,  England. 

Wild  Animals  I  Have  Known.      1898. 
The  Trail  of  the  Sand  Hill  Stag.      1899. 
The  Biography  of  a  Grizzly.      1900. 
The  Lives  of  the  Hunted.      1901. 


XXII 

Ernest  Seton-Thompson 

In  Bryant  Park,  N.  T. 

MR.  ERNEST  SETON-THOMP 
SON,  when  asked  for  an  interview, 
replied  appointing  a  meeting  with 
Mr.  Ernest  Thompson  Seton.  They  are  one 
and  the  same  person.  The  author  of  "  Wild 
Animals  I  Have  Known "  has  written  exten 
sively  under  both  names,  and  his  one  thousand 
or  more  illustrations  for  the  Century  Dictionary 
bear  the  initials  E.  E.  T.  S. — Ernest  E.  T. 
Seton,  which  was  the  name  given  to  him  in  bap 
tism.  This  event  occurred  nearly  forty-one 
years  ago  in  the  north  of  England. 

New  York  has  been  said  to  be  a  city  of  speci 
mens,  and  certainly  the  seeker  after  pictorial 
specimens  of  animals  would  do  well  to  visit  the 
apartment  of  Mr.  Ernest  Seton-Thompson  in 
the  new  studio  building  on  the  corner  of  Sixth 
Avenue  and  Fortieth  Street.  From  below  come 
the  roar  of  the  city  and  the  roll  of  the  ele 
vated  cars,  but  deadened  by  the  distance  into  a 
gentle  reminder  of  the  law  of  universal  labor. 
Of  such  reminder,  however,  Seton-Thomp- 
[281] 


American  Authors  &  rfheir  Homes 

son,  I  imagine,  stands  less  in  need  than  most 
men. 

Everything  in  the  studio  suggests  the  presence 
of  a  busy  man,  and,  indeed,  most  of  the  objects 
that  meet  the  eye  are  the  result  or  record  of  his 
industry  ;  the  drawings  and  paintings  of  animals 
on  the  walls,  the  carefully  arranged  and  classi 
fied  volumes  of  photographs  of  wild  animals  that 
he  and  others  have  met,  and  the  sketches  on  the 
easel  for  his  new  book,  "  The  Lives  of  the 
Hunted." 

The  room  is  an  ideal  workshop  for  writer  and 
artist.  Half  the  generous  width  of  the  north 
wall  is  taken  up  by  a  large  window  filling  the 
space  from  floor  to  ceiling,  and  looking  out  over 
Bryant  Park,  while  two  other  windows  on  the 
Sixth  Avenue  side  give  access  to  the  last  rays  of 
the  sinking  sun.  Beneath  one  of  these  case 
ments,  screened  off  from  the  rest  of  the  room, 
is  a  nook  inviting  to  literary  laissez-faire. 

The  most  exact  reflex  of  the  man  is  seen  in 
a  row  of  journals  that  fill  one  shelf.  Wher 
ever  he  went  in  the  West,  he  carried  one  of  these 
leather-clad  books,  and  noted  in  it  whatever  was 
of  interest  to  him  as  a  naturalist.  The  notes, 
though  brief,  are  scrupulously  exact,  were  all 
made  at  the  time,  usually  with  the  object  before 

[282] 


Ernest  Seton-Thompson 

him.  Sketches  adorn  the  pages  wherever  a 
sketch  could  make  more  clear  the  meaning,  or 
a  drawing  in  color  when  color  was  essential,  or 
to  a  scale  when  proportion  was  of  chief  interest. 
For  twenty  years  these  journals  have  been  care 
fully  kept,  and  whether  the  object  was  a  peculiar 
cloud  in  the  sunset  sky,  the  track  of  a  sparrow 
in  the  mud,  the  chirp  of  a  lark,  the  scale  a  thrush 
sings,  the  color  of  a  vireo's  eye,  the  duration  of 
a  shore-lark's  song,  the  shape  of  a  flock  of  birds, 
the  number  of  entrances  to  a  gopher's  hole,  the 
length  of  a  deer's  bound,  or  the  date  when  first 
the  poplar  catkins  showed — all  were  noted  with 
a  view  to  one  thing  only,  the  exact  truth. 

Twenty  thick  volumes  of  such  observations 
would  be  a  fair-sized  reservoir  even  if  each  year 
did  not  continue  to  produce  another,  and  no  one 
who  realizes  this  will  doubt  that  this  author's 
animal  stories  are  crammed  with  facts — not  by 
luck  or  inspiration,  but  because  each  one  repre 
sents  months  or  years  of  hard  work  in  the  study 
and  in  the  field. 

Near  Mr.  Seton-Thompson's  easel,  where 
stands  the  guardian  spirit  of  the  place,  a  stuffed 
peacock,  is  a  little  table  at  which  his  wife,  who 
is  known  independently  as  a  clever  writer,  es 
pecially  as  the  author  of  "  A  Woman  Tender- 
[283] 


American  Authors  &  'Their  Homes 

foot,"  published  in  1900,  and  in  its  way  a  unique 
volume,  was  busy  on  the  occasion  of  my  visit 
with  the  "  make-up  "  of  his  forthcoming  book. 
I  am  under  obligations  to  Mrs.  Seton-Thompson, 
or,  to  use  the  name  belonging  to  her  in  private 
life,  to  Mrs.  Seton,  for  her  aid  in  inducing  her 
husband  to  talk.  Under  normal  circumstances  I 
have  seen  him  delightfully,  naturally  loquacious, 
but  unfortunately  the  consciousness  of  the  fact 
that  he  is  talking  for  publication  seems  to  have 
a  dampening  effect  upon  his  conversational 
powers.  "  Interviews,"  he  said  wearily,  in  reply 
to  a  question  as  to  his  opinion  of  this  legalized 
method  of  invasion  of  a  writer's  privacy,  "  are  a 
necessary  evil." 

The  author  of  the  "  Sand  Hill  Stag,"  which 
book  is  by  the  way  a  chapter  of  autobiography, 
is,  I  suppose,  as  well  known,  physically,  to  the 
public  as  any  writer  of  these  times.  Indeed,  it 
is  probable  that  Kipling  alone  as  often  enjoys 
the  pleasure  of  gazing  upon  his  own  counter 
feit  presentment  in  magazines  and  newspapers. 
It  seems,  therefore,  like  an  act  of  supereroga 
tion  to  describe  again  his  dark,  intractable  looks, 
his  well-knit,  lithe  figure,  his  piercing  brown 
eyes,  and  strong,  nervous  hands.  He  strikes 
one  essentially  as  a  man  of  action,  the  child  of 
[284] 


Ernest  Seton-tfhompson 

the  fields  and  woods  and  streams,  not  of  cities 
and  studios  and  pink  teas. 

"I  once  met  a  judge  of  character  travelling  in 
the  West,"  he  said ;  "  a  man  who  prided  him 
self  on  his  knowledge  of  human  nature  and  his 
ability  to  size  up  people  at  a  glance.  '  You  are 
now  a  school-teacher,'  he  announced  emphati 
cally,  after  we  had  been  talking  together  a  short 
while,  c  and  it  is,  moreover,  doubtless  your  in 
tention  to  study  for  the  ministry.'  "  Certainly 
I  should  never  have  made  so  egregious  a  mistake 
in  regard  to  Mr.  Seton-Thompson,  although 
perhaps  unable  to  state  his  calling  positively. 
This  inability,  however,  would  be  excusable 
even  in  the  case  of  a  professed  student  of  hu 
man  nature,  as  the  author  of  l  Wild  Animals ' 
has  played  many  roles  in  the  course  of  his 
forty  years  of  struggle  and  prosperity — artist, 
writer,  hunter,  day-laborer,  guide,  lithographer, 
and  scientist,  to  mention  only  those  of  which 
he  spoke. 

The  apartment  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Seton  would 
be  described  by  real  estate  agents  as  containing 
all  the  modern  conveniences,  yet  despite  these 
unpicturesque  appurtenances  of  civilization,  there 
is  an  intangible  something  in  the  dwelling  that 
carries  one  in  spirit  to  the  wide  stretches  of  the 
[285] 


American  Authors  &  ^heir  Homes 

West,  to  the  uninvaded  domain  of  the  wolf  and 
eagle  and  mountain  lion. 

In  the  pleasant  little  library  in  the  rear  of  the 
dwelling,  separated  from  the  studio  by  the  mys 
teries  of  kitchen  and  bedroom,  hangs  an  ancient 
triangular  cabinet,  an  heirloom  in  the  Seton 
family,  and  beneath  it  is  suspended  an  eight- 
pronged  relic,  dating  from  the  time  of  the  Mac 
cabees  and  dedicated  to  the  use  of  the  high 
priests,  but  which  to  modern  eyes  suggests  the 
terrible  weapon  of  Rider  Haggard's  "  Um- 
slopagus."  In  dwarf  book-cases  around  the 
walls  stand  a  tempting  array  of  classics,  and 
from  the  secrecy  of  an  unsuspected  drawer  Mrs. 
Seton  extracted  a  collection  of  ancient  ivory  and 
wooden  carved  figures  that  had  originally  come 
from  India  and  China.  "  Just  a  frill,"  said  Mrs. 
Seton,  as  she  fingered  them  lovingly.  "  I  keep 
them  tucked  away  here,  because  it  is  nice  to  feel 
that  one  has  a  reserve,  whether  it  be  in  work 
or  play." 

Upon  being  shown  into  the  studio  I  found 
this  man,  despite  the  enervating  heat,  hard  at 
work  upon  marginal  illustrations  for  his  new 
book,  and  during  the  course  of  our  conversation 
he  kept  stealing  regretful  glances  at  his  drawing- 
pad,  as  though  longing  to  get  back  to  his  bears 
[286] 


Ernest  Seton-tfhompson 

and  wolves  and  rabbits.  On  the  easel  near  at 
hand  stood  a  wash-drawing  of  the  "  Kootenay 
Ram,"  at  the  moment  when,  on  the  narrow 
precipice  ledge,  he  awaits,  with  one  foot  raised, 
the  onslaught  of  his  pitiless  enemies,  the  wolves, 
thus  gallantly  gaining  time  for  the  ewes  of  his 
following  to  flee  to  a  place  of  safety.  In  the 
opposite  corner  of  the  room  lies  a  magnificent 
mounted  specimen  of  the  head  of  the  Bighorn, 
almost  as  fine,  indeed,  as  that  depicted  in  the 
drawing.  The  horns  alone,  according  to  the 
owner,  weigh  twenty-five  pounds.  Picking  up 
the  sheet  of  paper  on  which  he  had  been  work 
ing,  the  author-artist  showed  me  several  bear 
figures  which  he  had  nearly  completed. 

"  People  have  an  idea,"  he  said,  "  that  I  just 
throw  off,  as  it  were,  these  marginal  drawings, 
doing  a  number  of  them  in  a  morning.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  I  work  just  as  hard  over  them  as 
over  any  other  part  of  my  books.  One  of  them 
may  cost  me  several  days'  labor,  and  then  in 
the  end  I  may  be  dissatisfied  with  it  and  start 
all  over  again.  Even  this  bone  in  the  corner  of 
the  drawing  requires  careful  study  before  it  is 
absolutely  correct." 

"  Do  you  think  it  so  necessary  for  a  writer 
after  he  has  made  his  reputation,"  I  asked,  "  to 
[287] 


American  Authors   &  'Their  Homes 

continue  to  put  such  conscientious  labor  on  his 
books  ?  Look  at  some  of  the  popular  writers 
of  the  day  ;  in  the  beginning  they  did  really  good 
work,  whereas  later  books  show  lack  of  artistic 
conscience.  Yet  everything  they  write,  sells, 
and  they  make  plenty  of  money." 

"  I  have  never  read  the  books  you  refer  to," 
my  host  replied,  "  but  nevertheless  I  think  no 
one  can  afford  not  to  do  his  very  best  work. 
Even  Kipling  could  not  make  the  public  buy 
poor  stuff,  although,  to  be  sure,  he  could  sell  to 
the  publishers  whatever  he  wrote.  If  I  showed 
you  my  order-book  yonder  you  would  see  that  I 
have  on  hand  more  work  than  I  can  do  in  sev 
eral  years.  Indeed,  I  am  forced  constantly  to 
refuse  the  offers  of  editors  simply  from  physical 
inability  to  get  the  work  done.  Yet  in  the 
drawer  behind  you  is  a  pile  of  manuscript  that 
has  never  been  published,  and  that  I  could 
work  off  on  them  if  I  chose  to  do  so.  But  I 
won't  do  it,  for  the  simple  reason  that  it  is 
work  with  which  I  am  not  satisfied  myself.  In 
some  cases  I  have  burned  such  manuscripts,  but 
generally  I  keep  them,  in  the  hope  of  finding 
out  some  day  what  is  wrong  with  them." 

"  The  temptation,  however,  to  sell  them,"  I 
said,  "  must  be  very  strong.  It  would  be  a  very 
[288] 


Ernest  Seton-l'hompson 

pleasant  feeling,  I  should  think,  to  have  an 
order-book  of  that  kind  in  one's  desk." 

"  Yes,  but  the  only  chance  of  keeping  such 
an  order-book  is  always  to  do  one's  best.  What 
an  awful  sensation  to  see  something  in  print 
over  one's  own  signature  and  then  to  ask  one's 
self,  '  Did  I  ever  really  write  that  ?'  Although, 
of  course,  at  best  one  is  never  satisfied. 

"  Oh,  well,  there  isn't  anything  particularly 
interesting  about  my  early  struggles,"  said  Mr. 
Seton-Thompson,  in  answer  to  a  question  bear 
ing  upon  his  fameless  days  ;  "  I  had  my  strug 
gles  and  hardships  like  other  people,  and  bore 
them  in  the  ordinary  way." 

"  Tolstoi  says,  you  may  remember,  in  *  Anna 
Karenina,'  "  I  remarked,  "  that  all  happy  mar 
riages  are  happy  in  the  same  way,  while  all  un 
happy  marriages  are  unhappy  in  their  own  par 
ticular  manner.  The  same  is  true,  I  think,  in 
regard  to  an  individual's  prosperity  and  necessi- 
tousness  ;  the  history  of  the  latter  is  always  in 
teresting." 

"  Well,  there  isn't  much  to  tell  about  my 
early  struggles,"  said  my  host.  "  I  always  knew 
exactly  what  I  wanted  to  do,  even  at  ten  years 
of  age,  and  I  never  deviated  from  my  intention, 
despite  family  opposition  and  other  difficulties. 
[289] 


American  Authors  &  ^heir  Homes 

After  returning  to  Canada  from  attending  school 
in  England,  I  spent  several  years  in  knocking 
about  Manitoba,  tramping  through  the  province 
with  the  smallest  possible  outfit,  and  working 
regularly  in  the  fields  during  the  summer  in 
order  to  earn  enough  money  to  live  on.  I  would 
work  in  this  way  for  a  couple  of  months  at 
$2.50  a  day,  and  earn  enough  to  keep  me  for 
six  months.  In  1883, 1  came  on  to  New  York 
without  a  cent,  to  try  my  luck,  but  after  a  few 
months  I  had  enough  of  it  and  went  back  to  the 
West,  feeling  as  though  I  never  wanted  to  see 
the  place  again. 

"  Two  years  later  I  returned,  the  Century 
Company  being  this  time  instrumental  in  bring 
ing  me  East,  as  they  wanted  someone  to  make 
drawings  for  their  Dictionary.  They  had  writ 
ten  to  the  Smithsonian  Institution,  for  which  I 
had  been  doing  work,  asking  them  to  suggest 
someone  who  could  make  the  drawings  artisti 
cally  and  yet  scientifically  correct.  4  There  is  a 
fellow  named  Seton  up  in  Manitoba  who  would 
probably  answer,'  was  the  reply ;  so  on  the 
strength  of  that  they  looked  me  up. 

"  'The  Carberry  Deer  Hunt,'  which  was  the 
original  form  of  'The  Sand  Hill  Stag,'  was  my 
first  published  story,  appearing  in  Forest  and 
[290] 


Ernest  Seton-T'hompson 

Stream  in  1886,  although  the  first  story  that  I 
ever  wrote  was  <•  The  King  Bird.'  I  wrote 
that  in  1880,  but  it  has  never  been  published. 
It  is  over  yonder  in  that  box  with  the  others, 
and  some  day  I  may  be  able  to  get  it  into  satis 
factory  shape." 

"  When  did  you  make  your  first  big  strike  ?" 

"In  1898  with  'Wild  Animals  I  Have 
Known.'  I  had  already  published  l  The  Art 
Anatomy  of  Animals '  and  c  Natural  History  of 
Manitoba,'  but  they  are  scientific,  not  popular, 
books.  Up  to  that  time  I  was  not  generally 
known,  although  c  Lobo '  and  some  other  stories 
had  been  very  well  received  and  noticed  exten 
sively.  Still,  in  general,  it  is  only  by  means  of 
a  book  that  one  makes  a  lasting  impression  ; 
the  space  at  command  of  a  magazine  is  too  short 
to  allow- much  room  for  any  one  individual,  and 
nowadays  people  do  not  care  for  serials.  The 
book  is  the  thing." 

"  I  suppose  the  success  of  l  Wild  Animals ' 
was  unmistakable  and  immediate,  was  it  not  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all ;  it  was  gradual  and  normal.  Be 
sides,  I  have  followed  that  up  with  a  fresh  vol 
ume  every  year,  and  have  also  made  extensive 
lecturing  tours  throughout  the  country.  I  have 
just  returned  from  a  two-weeks'  trip  in  Manito- 
[291] 


American  Authors   6?  T'keir  Homes 

ba,  of  which  you  may  perhaps  know  I  am  Pro 
vincial  naturalist,  during  which  I  gathered  much 
material ;  and  as  soon  as  mine  enemies,  the  pub 
lishers,  will  let  me  get  away,  we  are  going  to 
start  out  for  a  long  outing  in  Colorado." 


[2Q2] 


Index 


Index 


A  LASKA,  152 
-rv  Albany   Turnpike,    The. 

3i 

Alden,  Henry  M.,  books  by, 
270,  271 ;  his  home  de 
scribed,  271-274 ;  his  edi 
torial  work,  271 ;  his  library, 
272 ;  his  coming  to  New 
York,  274 ;  his  lectures, 
274  ;  habits  in  work,  275  ; 
his  office,  276-277 

Alden,  John,  273 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey,  in 
Boston,  ii ;  books  by,  90; 
view  in  home  of,  facing 
90 ;  his  Boston  home  de 
scribed,  92-95 ;  his  person 
ality,  91  ;  his  old  furniture, 
94;  Sumner's  desk  owned 
by,  95  ;  and  autograph  col 
lectors,  96 ;  his  manuscripts 
by  famous  authors,  97 ; 
room  he  works  in,  97 ; 
as  editor  of  The  Atlantic, 
227 

"Aleshine,  -Mrs., "68 

Alma  Tadema,  L.,  102 

' '  American  Lands  and  Let 
ters,"  205 

Andrew,  Governor  John  A., 
218 

"  Ardis  Claverden,"  70 

Arnold,  Matthew,  reception 
to,  8 

Atlantic  Monthly,  TAe,  96, 
219,  227,  274 

Austen,  Jane,  24 

Authors  Club,  view  of  inte 
rior  of,  frontispiece ;  recep 
tions  at,  8 ;  Stedman  at, 
169;  home  of,  239 

Authors,  better  homes  of,  than 
in  Poe's  time,  3 ;  enlarged 

[  295 


incomes  of,    11-16;    other 

rewards  of,  14-16 
"Avalon,"   Dr.    van   Dyke's 

home,  view  of,  facing  46 
Avery,  Samuel  P.,  168 

"  RABIE  BELL,"  06 

•*-*  Baltimore,  192 
Balzac,  H.  de,  106 
Bancroft,  George,  125 
Bangs,  John  Kendrick,  books 
of,  258 ;  view  of  his  home, 
facing  258  ;   his  home  de 
scribed,  259-266;  room  he 
works  in,  260  ;  as  an  editor, 
261 ;  his  hours  of  work,  262  ; 
as  a  citizen  of  Yonkers.  263 ; 
his  Cruikshanks,  264 ;    his 
first  editions,  266 ;   a  walk 
with  him,  267 
Bangs,  Francis  N.,  261 
Baptists,  the  "  Hardshell, "40 
Bar  Association,  The,  261 
Bars  tow.  Col.  Wilson,  21 
Beacon  Hill,  Boston,  92 
Beacon  Street,  Boston,  97 
"  Bells,  The,"  4,  14 
Benson,  Eugene,  162 
Besant,  Sir  Walter,  150 
Bigelow,  John,  20 
Bismarck,  Prince,  57 
Blue  Ridge,  The,  62 
Boker,  George  H.,  163 
Booth,  Edwin,  223 
Boston,  loss    of  its    literary 
prestige,  n,  91 ;  Aldrich's 
home  in,  92 ;  literary  fam 
ilies  in,  97  ;  John  Fiske  and 
its  traditions,  125  ;    British 
in,    26 ;  as  a  literary  cen 
tre,  159,  160 ;  its  public  li 
brary,  215 
Boswell,  James,  16 


Brick   Presbyterian  Church, 

The,  48 

Bronte,  Charlotte,  14 
Bronxville,  159 
Brooklyn,  Mr.   Ford's   home 

in,  113-117  ;  politics  in,  120 
Brownings,  The,  23,  24 
Browning,  Robert,  145,  157, 

185 

Bryant,  William  C. ,  24 
"  Builders  and  Other  Poems, 

The,"  54 
Bull  Run,  179 
Burns,  Anthony,  218 
Burns,  Robert,  23,  24,  242 
Burroughs,  John,   books   by 
him,  30 ;  view  of  his  ''  Slab- 
sides,"  facing,  30;  his  two 
homes,  31  ;  his  birthplace, 
33  ;  composes  from  notes, 
34;  "  Riverby,"  34  ;  "  Slab- 
sides,"  36-38;  his  visitors, 
38  ;  his  women  readers,  39  ; 
his  one  famous  poem,  40 ; 
tired  of  the   Hudson,  41 ; 
not  a  man  for  towns,  42 ; 
his  recent  work,  43 
Burroughs,  Julian,  35 
Burroughs,  Mrs.  John,  35 
Butler,  George,  162 
Butler,  William  A.,  267 
Byron,  Lord,  23 

(~*ABANEL,  his  "  Birth  of 

^      Venus,"  178 

Cable,  George  W.,  books  by, 

136  ;   his  home  described, 

137  -  142  ;    his   hospitality, 
139;  his  neighbors,  139;  his 
workshop,    140 ;     his    love 
of  trees,    141 ;   his  philan 
thropic  work,  141 

Caine,  Hall,  265 
Cambridge,     John      Fiske's 
home  in,  126-128  ;  Colonel 
Higginson's  home  in,  211 
Campbell.  Thomas,  23 
Canfield,  Dr.  J.  H.,  87 
Carnegie,  Andrew,    remarks 
by,  9 ;  books  by,  236 :  his 


present  home  described, 
237-243 :  his  private  library. 
237  ;  his  trowels,  239 ;  his 
musical  instruments,  241  ; 
his  books,  242 ;  his  new 
home  in  New  York,  244 

Carnegie,  the  Clan,  240 

Carnegie  Music  Hall,  239 

Carson,  Kit,  150 

"Cask  of  Amontillado,  The," 
4 

Catskills,  The,  33 

Central  Park,  102 

Century  Association,  The,  8 

Century,  The,  227 

"  Century  Dictionary,  The," 
281,  291 

Charles  Town,  W.   Va.,  61, 

71 

"  Cheerful  Yesterdays,"  217 
Childe,  Cromwell,  his  sketch 
es  of  Ford  and  Stockton,  v 
Claflin,  ex-Governor,  93 
Claymont,  Stockton's  home, 

view  of,  facing  60 
Cleveland,    Grover,  43 ;    his 
home  in  Princeton,  48,  58  ; 
and  "  Peter  Stirling,"  120 
Cluny  Castle,  244 
"  Col.  Carter,"  190 
Cold  Spring  Harbor,  193 
Coleridge,  S.  T.,  23 
Columbia  University  .George 
E.Woodberry  professor  in, 
224,    225 ;     Brander    Mat 
thews    professor    in,    249 , 
Bangs  a  student  in,  262 
Constantinople,  191 
Convent  Station,  N.  J.,  63 
Cornwall,  Barry,  56 
Cowper,  William,  23,  183 
Cruikshank,  George,  264 

•pjAMROSCH,  WALTER, 
*-'      242 

Dickens,  Charles,  23 
Dobson.  Austin,  167 
Doyle,  Conan,  263 
Dray  ton,  Michael,  23 
"  Dream  Life."  206 


[296! 


Index 


Du  Bois,  H.  P.,  his  sketch  of 
Stedman,  v. 

"  Dutch  and  Quaker  Colo 
nies,  The,"  130 

"PDGEWOOD."  de- 
•*"'  scribed,  197,  204 

Edinburgh,  Carnegie  library 
in,  239,  240 

Emerson,  R.  W.,  42 

"  English  Lands,  Letters  and 
Kings,"  205 

"  Eureka,"  4 

"  Evangeline,"  107 

Evarts,  William  M.,  19 

P IELD,  Cyrus  W.,  20 
Field,  Eugene,  163 

Field,  James  T.,  274 

"  Fisherman's  Luck,"  52 

Fiske,  John,  his  death,  n  ; 
books  by  him,  124  ;  view  of 
his  home,  facing,  124 ;  his 
home  described,  126,  127  ; 
the  new  home  he  expected 
to  occupy,  133  ;  his  person 
ality,  128  ;  his  library,  129, 
130,  133 ;  habits  in  work, 
131 ;  his  death,  125, 131-133 

Fitch,  G.  H.,  his  sketch  of 
Joaquin  Miller,  v,  147-158 

Fletcher,  Miss,  162 

Ford,  Gordon  L.,  121 

Ford,  Paul  L.,  books  by.  112  ; 
view  of  home  of,  facing 
112;  his  former  Brooklyn 
home,  113-117;  his  New 
York  home  described,  113, 
114;  his  marriage,  114; 
talks  of  "Peter  Stirling," 
118-121  ;  his  historical 
work,  121,  122 

Ford,  Mrs.  Paul  L. ,  114 

Ford,  Worthington   C.,   121, 

122 

Frederickson,  Mr.  ,  231 

Fremont,  John  C  ,  and  Joa 
quin  Miller,  150,   154,  155, 
156 
*'  Fresh  Fields  "  32 


,  C.  D.,  176,266 
Gladstone,  W.  E.,  243 

"  God  in  His  World,"  275 

Golden  Gate,  The,  147,  149 

"Gospel   of  Wealth,   The," 
237 

Gramercy  Park,  19 

Grant,  Robert,  265 

Grant,  U.  S.,  57 

Gray,  Thomas,  23 

"  Great  K.  &  A.  Train  Rob 
bery,  The,"  121 

"  Great      War     Syndicate, 
The,  "69 

Griswold,  R.  W.,  230 

TLJALE,  EdwardEverett.il 
11  Harper's    Monthly,     26, 
228,  262 ;  and  Mr.   Alden, 
271,  274,  276 
Harper's  Weekly,  261 
Harrison,  Frederic,  8 
Harvard  Square,  126 
Harvard  University,  Colonel 
Higginson    at,    218,    220 ; 
George  E.  Woodberry  at, 
227 

Hawthbrne,  Nathaniel,  kind 
ness  to  Stoddard,  25  ;  How- 
ell's  estimate  of,  107 
Hearne,  James  A.,  105 
"  Heart  of  Man,  The,"  233 
Heine,  Henri,  107,  108 
Hewitt,  Abram  S.,  20 
Higginson,  Nathaniel,  213 
Higginson,  Stephen,  213,  217 
Higginson,      Col.     T.      W., 
books    by,    210  ;    view    of 
home  of,  facing,  210 ;  home 
described,     211-215  j     his 
youthfulness,  212 ;  his  an 
cestors,  212  ;  his  wife,  214, 
220  ;   his  war  sword,  214  ; 
his     workshop,     215 ;     his 
birthplace,    216,    217 ;    his 
anti-slavery  services,  218  ; 
as  a  lecturer,  219 ;  his  sum 
mer  home,  220 
Higginson,  Mrs.  T.  W.,  214, 
220 


[297  ] 


Hingham,  Mass.,  26 
Holland,  Ned,  190 
Holmes,  O.  W.,  43    91,  97; 
book  dedicated  to,  167  ;  hie 
birthplace,  ai6 
Homer,  Winslow,  162 
Hopkinson,  Francis,  190 
"  House   Boat  on   the  Styx, 

The,"  261 

Howe,  Julia  Ward,  43 
Howells,  W.  D. ,  in  Gramercy 
Park,  19  ;  books  by,  100 ; 
picture  of,  at  his  desk,  fac 
ing  100 ;  his  eyes,  101 ;  his 
home  described,  101-103  ; 
conversation  with,  103-109  ; 
views  of  Hawthorne  and 
Longfellow,  107  ;  of  Whit 
man  and  Poe,  108 ;  de 
scribes  Stedman,  163 ;  as 
editor  of  The  Atlantic, 
227 

Howells,  Mrs.  W.  D.,  102 
Hudson,    the,     31,    34,    41, 

259 
Hugo,  Victor,  22 

TNGERSOLL,    Ernest,   his 
•*•  sketches  of  Burroughs  and 

Alden,  v ;    of   Burroughs, 

31-44  ;  of  Alden,  271-277 
"In  Ole  Virginia,"  179 
Irving,  Sir  Henry,  148 
Irving,  Washington,  24;  and 

Donald   G.   Mitchell,   206, 

207,  217 

"TAKE  EYRE,"  14 
J    "Janice  Meredith,"  113, 
116,  117,  121,  122 
Johnson,  Dr.  Samuel,  95 
Johnson,  Eastman,  213 

KEATS,  John,  23 
"Kenilworth,"  182 
Kennedy,  John  P. ,  230 
Kingsbridge  Road,  Poe's  Cot 
tage  on,  3 
Kipling,  R.,  288 
Klondike,  The,  153 


"T  AD Y  or  the  Tiger,  The,' 
*-"  66  69,  70 

Lamb,  Charles,  23 
Landor,  W.  S.,  183 
Laurie,  Alexander,  21 
Lawrence,  Park,  159,  160 
"  Leeks,  Mrs.,"  68 
Lee,  Robert  E. ,  58 
Lenox  Library,  The,  230 
"  Library  of  the  World's  Best 

Literature,"  24 
"  Life,"  262 
Linton,  W.  J.,  171 
"  Little  Rivers,"  52 
Lincoln,  A.,  27 
"  Lives  of  the  Hunted,  The,  ' 

282 
Longfellow,   H.  W.,  24,  91, 

96;  his  "  Evangeline,"  107  ; 

his  home,  127,  162 
Longfellow,  Mrs.  H.  W.,  214 
Lowell,   J.    R. ,   24,    91,    96; 

helps  Woodberry,  228-229, 

232 ;  and  Alden,  274 

TV/TABIE,  Hamilton,  W.,  a 
***-  dinner  to,  8 ;  books  by, 
76 ;  view  of  his  home,  facing 
77 ;  his  home  described, 
78-79 ;  his  two  sides,  79 ;  his 
first  book,  80 ;  on  "  The 
Outlook,"  81 ;  his  conver 
sation,  83-84 ;  sitting  for  his 
portrait,  85;  a  dinner  to 
him,  86 

Mabie,  Mrs.  H.  W.,  79 
"Madame  Delphine,"  138 
Maeterlinck,  104 
"Makers  of  Literature,"  233 
Manitoba,  291 
Manning,  Cardinal,  243 
"  Marse  Chan,"  176,  183 
Mattapoisette,  Mass.  ,26 
Matthews,     Brander,    books 
by,    248^     his    home     de 
scribed,  253,  256  ;  his  many 
talents,    249 ;    methods    of 
work,    250-251,    255 ;      his 
Moliere  collection,  252  254 
"  Meh  Lady,"  176 

298] 


Index 


Metuchen,  N.  J.,  271 

Miller,  Jpaquin,  books  by. 
144;  view  on  his  estate, 
facing  144;  his  home  de 
scribed,  145-156  ;  his  dream 
of  a  home,  145  ;  the  man  de 
scribed,  149-150  ;  his  work 
room,  150-151  ;  his  trip  to 
Alaska,  155  ;  his  mother  and 
daughter,  153-154  ;  his  fu 
neral  pyre,  155 

Miller,  Miss  Maude,  153 

Milton,  John,  23 

Mitchell,  Donald  G.  ,  books 
by,  196  ;  view  of  his  library, 
facing  196  ;  his  home  de 
scribed,  197-204  ;  changes 
at  Edge  wood,  199-200  ;  as 
a  farmer,  203-205  ;  his  hab 
its,  205  ;  his  books,  206,  207 

Moliere,  252-253 

Moore,  George  H.,  231 

Moore,  Thomas,  203 

"  Morgesons,  The,"  26 

Morris,  William,  146 

Morristown,  N.  J.,  62 

Morley,  John,  243 

Motley,  J.  L.,  125 

Mount  Holyoke,  138 

Mount  Tom,  138 

Mt.  Vernon   Street,   Boston, 

92-93 

MQller,  Max,  145 
"  Murders      in      the       Rue 

Morgue,  The,"  5 
Muir,  John,  43 
"  My  Farm  of  Edge  wood,  "  97 
"  My  Lady  Greygown,"  50 
"  My  Study  Fire,"  78,  80 


150 

•^     "  Nation,  The,  "  227 
''National  Studies  in  Ameri 

can  Letters,"  233 
New   Haven,  Mr.   Mitchell's 

home  in,  197-204 
Newburyport,  218 
Newport,  219 
New  York  City,  as  a  publish 

ing  centre,   10  ;    Mr.  How- 


ells's  home  in,  101-103  ;  Mr. 
Ford's  horn*  in,  113-114; 
as  a  literary  centre,  159 ; 
Mr.  Smith's  home  in,  189- 
194;  Professor  Woodber- 
ry's  home  in,  224-226  ;  Mr. 
Carnegie's  home  in,  237- 
239  ;  his  new  home  in,  244 ; 
Professor  Matthews's  home 
in,  253  ;  Mr.  Alden's  office 
in,  273 ;  Seton-Thompson's 
home  in,  281-287 
New  York  Historical  Society, 

20 

Northampton,  Mass.,  Mr.  Ca 
ble's    home    in,    137-141 ; 
club  house  in,  141 
"Nothing  to  Wear,"  267 
"  Null,  The  Late  Mrs.,"  70 

/^)AKLAND,  Cal.,  Mr.  Mil- 
^  ler's  home  back  of,  145- 

iS6 

"Old  Creole  Days,"  138 
"Outlook,  The,"  80,  81 

pAGE,     Thomas     Nelson, 

*  books  by,  174 ;  his  home 
described,  175-186 ;  his 
"den,"  176;  his  personal 
ity,  177-178  ;  his  methods 
in  work,  180 ;  his  library, 
181 ;  his  liking  for  Scott, 
182-183 

Paine,  Robert  Treat,  93 

Palisades,  The,  269. 

Parkman,  Francis,  125  ; 
Fiske's  tribute  to,  131 

"Pastime  Stories,"  177 

Pattison,  Mark,  56 

Pierce,  Franklin,  25 

"Peter  Stirling,"  116-120 

Pfaff ' s,  authors  who  met  at, 
7 

Plato,  84 

Players,  The,  19,  223  ;  Profes 
sor  Matthews  and,  253-255 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  his  cottage 
in  Fordham,  view  of,  facing 
2 ;  described  by  Professor 

299  ] 


Index. 


Woodberry,  4 ;  famous 
abroad,  5  ;  his  wife's  death, 
5  ;  his  latest  writings,  6,  9 ; 
his  periodicals,  10-11,  14; 
estimate  of  by  Stoddard, 
27  ;  Howells's  views  of,  108, 
151 ;  Woodberry 's  biogra 
phy  of,  228-231 
"Poems  by  Two  Brothers," 

56 
"Poets    of   America,    The," 

168 

"  Pomona,"  67-68 
Ponkapog,  Mass.,  92,  95 
Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  94 
Prescott,  William  H.,  125 
Princeton,    N.  J.,    Dr.    van 
Dyke  in,  47,  50,  53  ;  Cleve 
land's  home  in,  58 
Putnam's  Magazine,  26 

QUARTLEY,  Arthur,  93 
\z£,  "  Quentin  Durward,"  182 

"D  AJON,  etching  by,  101 

1X  "  Raven,  The,"  14 

"  Reality  of  Religion,  The," 

5i 

"  Red  Rock,"  180 
Reinhart,  Stanley,  193 
"  Reveries    of    a    Bachelor, 

The,"  200,  206 
Reynolds,  Sir  Joshua,  23 
"  Riverby,"  Mr.  Burroughs's 

home,  41 
"  Riverby,"  Mr.  Burroughs's 

book,  34 

Robbia,  Lucca  Delia,  214 
Robbins,  Rev.  Thomas,  24 
Robertson,  A.  M.,  119 
Roosevelt,  Theodore,  226 
Rossetti,  D.  G.,  145 
"  Rudder  Grange,"  66,  69 
"  Ruling  Passion,  The,"  54 
Ruskin,  John,  242 

CAMS,  Stanhope,  his  sketch 
"•^  of  Dr.  van  Dyke,  v 
San  Francisco  Bay,  146,  147 
Saxton,  General  Rufus,  218 


Scott,  Sir  Walter,  23, 24, 182, 

183 

Scribner's  Magazine,  181 
Scribner  s  Monthly,  66 
Seton  -  Thompson,      Ernest, 

books  of,  280 ;  portrait  of, 

in   his   studio,  facing  280 ; 

his    home    in    New   York, 

281  -  287  ;     his    workshop, 

282  ;    his  new  book,   284 ; 
work  in  hand,  288 ;  his  early 
life,    290,     291  ;     his    first 
books,  292 

Seton-Thompson,    Mrs.    Er 
nest,  284,  286 
Shakespeare,  William,  78 
Shelley,     P.     B.,     Professor 
Woodberry's    edition    of, 
231 

Shenandoah,  The,  61 
Sheridan,  General  P.  H.,  61 
Sheridan,  R.  B.,  23,  254 
Skibo  Castle,  244 
"  Slabsides,"  Mr.  Burroughs's 
home,  view  of,  facing,  30, 

37,  41 

Smith,  F.  Hopkinson,  86; 
books  by,  188  ;  view  of  his 
studio,  facing  188 ;  his 
home  described,  189-194  ; 
his  studio,  189,  191 ;  his 
business  office,  191 ;  his  ca 
pacity  for  work,  192,  193 

Smith,  Francis  H.,  194 

Smith  College,  137 

Smith,  Seba,  25 

"Songs  of  Summer,  The," 
70 

"  Songs  of  Three  Centuries," 
40 

Southey,  Robert,  23 

Spencer,  Herbert,  243 

"  Squirrel  Inn,  The,"  71 

Stedman,  E.  C.,  reception  to, 
8 ;  portrait  of,  22 ;  at  the 
Mabie  dinner,  86 ;  books 
by,  158  ;  view  of  his  home, 
facing,  158  ;  his  home  de 
scribed,  159-162,  165,  171  ; 
his  home  a  literary  centre, 


[300] 


Index 


159  ;  described  by  Howells, 

163  ;   in  Wall   Street,  163, 

164  ;  in  the  Civil  War,  164 ; 
his  youthfulness,   165 ;   his 
correspondence,  166 ;  lines 
to,   from   Dobson,    167 ;   a 
talk   with,    168-172  ;    as   to 
Stoddard    and    Poe,    169, 
170,  231 

Stedman,  Mrs.  E.  C.,  159, 
161 

Stevenson,  R.  L.,  52 

Stockton,  Frank  R.,  recep 
tion  to,  8 ;  books  by,  60 ; 
view  of  home  of,  facing, 
60 ;  home  described,  61, 
62  ;  his  former  home,  62  ; 
his  methods  of  work,  63 ; 
his  study,  64 ;  talks  of  his 
writings,  63-73  ;  his  "  Po 
mona,"  68  ;"  The  Lady  or 
the  Tiger,"  63-69,  73; 
"Ardis  Claverden,"  70 

Stockton,  Mrs.  F.  R.,  71 

Stoddard,    Charles   Warren, 

147 

Stoddard,  Lorimer,  pictures 
by,  21 ;  costume  portraits 

Of,   22 

Stoddard,  R.  H.,  books  by, 
18  ;  view  in  home  of,  facing 
18  ;  his  home  described,  20- 
27  ;  his  study,  22  ;  portraits 
of,  21  ;  work  he  is  now  do 
ing,  24  ;  his  arrival  in  New 
York,  25;  his  birthplace, 
26 ;  lines  by  him,  27,  163 ; 
and  Poe,  169-170 

Stoddard,  Mrs.  R.  H.,  22, 
24 ;  her  novels  and  poems, 
26 

St.  George's  Church,  20 

St.  Mark's  Church,  20 

"  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy,  The," 
94 

"  Story  of  an  Untold  Love, 
The,"  117,  121 

"  Structure  of  Paganism, 
The,"  274 

Stuyvesant,  Peter,  20 

[301 


Stuyvesant  Square,  19 
Summit,  N.  J.,  62  ;  Mr.  Ma- 

bie's  home  in,  77 
Sumner,  Charles,  95 
"  Sunnyside,"  206 
Swinburne,  A.  C.,  27,  148 

"T^ARRYAWHILE,"  137 
-    Taylor,     Bayard,    gift 
from,  to  Stoddard,  21,  24; 
as  a  friend  of  Stoddard,  25  ; 
and  Stedman,  162-163 

"  Temple  House,"  26 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord,  and 
Dr.  van  Dyke,  50-51,  55  , 
first  editions  of,  56  ;  visited 
by  Dr.  van  Dyke,  57  ;  145  ; 

152 

Terry,  Ellen,  148 
Thackeray,  W.  M.,  portrait 

of,  22  ;    Howells's  view  of, 

106,  176,  242,  266 
Theosophists,  The,  40 
Thornhill,  Sir  John,  213 
"  Three  Weeks  in  Politics," 

263 

Tilden,  S.  J.,  20 
Tile  Club,  The,  193 
TolstoT,  Count,  106,  289 
"  Trail  of  the  Sand  Hill  Stag, 

The,"  284,  292 
Trask.  Spenser,  20 
"  Triumphant    Democracy," 

238 

Twain,  Mark,  86,  190 
"  Two  Men,"  26 

"TTNDER     the      Evening 

**'  Lamp,"  24 
"  Under  the  Trees."  78 
University  Club,  The,  86 

WAN  DYKE,  HENRY, 
*  books  by  him,  46,  51  ;  his 
home,  view  of,  facing  46 ; 
two  parts  to  his  life,  47 ;  re 
moval  to  Princeton,  48  ;  his 
home  described,  48 ;  his 
study  of  Tennyson,  50,  53  ; 
his  fondness  for  angling, 


Index 


52  ;   popularity  at  Prince 
ton,  53  ;  his  new  book,  54  ; 
his  workshop,  55  ;  presides 
at  the  Mabie  dinner,  86 
Vassar  College,  38 
Vedder,  Elihu,  190 
Venable,  CoL  Robert,  52 

WAKE  ROBIN.  "32 
Warner,  C.  D. ,  228 
Washington,  Charles,  61 
Washington,  City  of,  175 
Washington,  George,  23,  61 
Washington  Elm,  The,  126 
Washington  Post.  The,  185, 

1 86 
"  Wellington,   Ode    on    the 

Death  of,"  57 

Wentworth,  Governor,  212 
West  End  Avenue,  253,  256 
West  -  Park-on-the  -  Hudson, 

3L36 
White.  R.  G.,  19 


Whitelock,  W.  W.,  his  sketch 
of  Page,  v,  175-183 

Whitman,  Walt,  Howells's 
views  of,  108 

Whittier,  John  G. ,  24,  40 

William's  College,  273 

"  Wild  Animals  I  Have 
Known,"  281,  284,  292-293 

Wood,  T.  W.,  21 

"  Woman  Tenderfoot,  A," 
284 

Woodberry,  Prof.  G.  E.,  de 
scribes  Poe's  cottage,  4 ; 
books  by,  222  ;  sketch  of, 
223-233  ;  at  Columbia,  227, 
225  ;  at  Harvard,  227  ;  his 
"  Heart  of  Man,"  233 

Worcester,  Noah,  127 

Wordsworth,  William,  23, 183 

"  Work  and  Culture,"  78 

WALE  University,  205 
*    Yonkers,  259,  263,  267 


[302] 


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